


The Silence Between the Lines

by chillydeer



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dread Pirate Dimitri, M/M, Minor Angst, Pining, Political Intrigue, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, References to past trauma, Slow-ish burn, Trust Issues, mild depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27205507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydeer/pseuds/chillydeer
Summary: King Dimitri receives mysterious letters from an unknown source, and he won’t share what they’re about. Felix is determined to get to the bottom of it. The result is an unexpected reunion, the unraveling of threads long left dormant, and a test of how well he and Dimitri can truly trust each other after all they've been through.Featuring: covert missions, political intrigue, Dimitri wearing all black, Felix getting a haircut, trust issues, poison, a birthday party to remember, special guests, and a secret rendezvous.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 50
Kudos: 78
Collections: Dimilix Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Been writing for years but this is my first fandom big bang! I feel old and young at the same time lol.
> 
> I was so happy to partner with Ama ([@fenneccake](https://twitter.com/fenneccake)) on this one!!  
> Please check out previews of their amazing artwork on [twitter](https://twitter.com/imachillydeer/status/1320748469984718849).  
> I’ll embed the full pieces in relevant scenes. :)
> 
> Super special thanks to @radialarch for beta reading, and to Rose and Kait for reading early chapters and telling me it didn’t suck!!

Dimitri is twitchy again.

Felix lounges on the small couch in the king’s private sitting room, feet crossed, reading some account Ashe lent him detailing early Faerghan dueling traditions. Across from him, Dimitri slouches in a carved chair clutching a sheaf of parchment, something dull like the hundredth list of proposed revisions to the inter-Alliance trade agreement. 

From what Felix can see, Dimitri isn’t even looking at the papers. They droop out of his hand as he stares at some space halfway between the door and the fireplace. He shifts his weight from one arm of the chair to the other for the fifth time in as many minutes. 

Felix rolls his eyes behind the pages. Let Dimitri be bored for once—maybe it will convince him to stop accommodating every line item revision the trade guild demands.

He’s been twitchy all day, through the meeting with the local farmers and their plans to rework the plains come spring, on edge at every movement of soldiers or staff in the hall. He even refused Felix’s usual spar afterward, begged off to examine more paperwork. Felix finally cornered him in his study, and with Ingrid’s help, dragged him here to relax.

Dimitri shifts again, and the chair creaks in response. Felix purses his lips but doesn’t speak up. The fidgeting is irritating more than anything, unusual for someone of Dimitri’s focus. 

In front of the fire—roaring again, thanks to the maid’s visit after lunch—Ingrid kneels and polishes her breastplate. Her pauldrons, greaves, and vambraces lie scattered to the side, some already shining. Sylvain, sprawled out on the floor beside her, is half-heartedly pulling faces in the reflection of one. Above them over the mantle hangs a ceremonial sword, supposedly belonging to Loog.

It’s a contented silence on the surface, one they haven’t enjoyed in a while and one they won’t enjoy again for longer still. Tonight, more friends arrive for a preliminary dinner before the onslaught of visiting dignitaries and would-be lords from around the country pour in.

Felix returns to his reading, lets the words draw him into a contemplative state. Apparently after the founding of Faerghus, duels on horseback became popular as soldiers sought more challenging ways to prove their mettle. As swords were too short to provide enough reach, and lances too long to maneuver at close range, the sport adapted to involve short jaunts from a distance apart, forcing combatants to perfect their aim as much as their strength. And thus, jousting was born. 

Felix frowns. What a stupid sport. Puts horses at unnecessary risk of injury and provides no real training to use in battle. Did they think the enemy would allow time for each soldier to get in the proper placement before charging?

“This is stupid,” he mutters aloud. 

Sylvain rolls over to face him. “Are you reading about jousting again?”

“It’s idiotic. Proves nothing except that paladin knights have too much ego.”

Sylvain, who is set to participate in the celebratory jousting tournament in two weeks, laughs. “Aw, Felix, you don’t have to be so jealous.”

“Just because you can’t stay on a horse for more than two rounds,” interrupts Ingrid, “doesn’t mean the rest of the knights don’t glean something worthwhile from it.” 

“Hmph. I don’t need a horse to take them down.” Felix shuts the book and sets it in his lap. “I still don’t understand why we couldn’t host a sword tournament this year instead.”

“Let the rest of us have a little fun every once in a while, huh?” Sylvain says. He stretches his arm and accidentally elbows the pauldron in Ingrid’s hands. 

She swats him away and rolls her eyes. “Because it’s the king’s birthday, not yours, and he decided upon jousting. The tournament was planned weeks ago.”

Sylvain smiles in triumph. Every one of them knows that Dimitri only decided on jousting because Sylvain cajoled him into it. 

“Dimitriiii,” Sylvain whines, “won’t you convince Felix to enter the tournament? It’s not too late. I bet he would look striking on that new gelding they just brought in.”

Dimitri, who has been watching the door with unusual attention, grunts absentmindedly. His fingers drum an erratic rhythm on the chair’s arm. At some point he notices their eyes on him. “What? Oh, Felix, you are of course welcome to take part. I do not care either way.”

He waves the hand holding the papers, one of which falls. Goes back to his drumming, stealing glances at the entryway every few seconds like an impatient student waiting for class to end. 

Felix studies him for a moment before glaring at Sylvain. “I am _not_ jousting. Face me with a sword, and I’ll consider your challenge.”

“Clearly it’s _you_ who isn’t up to the challenge of a good joust, Duke Fraldarius,” says Sylvain, grinning. “Don’t you want to show off in front of all of Fódlan’s fine ladies?”

“No.” 

Felix crosses his arms, looks at Dimitri again. He’s completely given up the pretense of reading. His boot heel digs into the lion’s paw at the base of one chair leg, scratching against the wood as he jostles it up and down. What is wrong with him?

At that moment, the door opens to reveal Dedue, carrying a wooden bottle of wine. Dimitri scrambles out of his seat and leaps forward to meet him. 

“Your Majesty,” says Dedue. He blinks back a hint of surprise. “A servant in the kitchen said you requested this wine be brought up. I took it as I was on the way.”

He hands it to Dimitri, who accepts with some confusion. “Yes…um, you have my thanks.”

“Oh, nice one, Dedue!” calls Sylvain, sitting up. “Is that this year’s Morfis plum?”

Dedue raises an eyebrow at him. “It is an Alliance blend, I believe.”

“Well, give it here, Your Majesty. I’ll gladly take the first sip, make sure those bastard tradesmen aren’t trying to poison you.”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid scolds.

“What? Do you know how much grief they’ve given us?”

Dimitri returns to his seat, more slowly this time. Dedue wanders to the couch, where Felix reluctantly slides his legs over to give room. He sits, picks up Felix’s abandoned book in mild interest.

Things lapse into quiet again, with only the crackling of fire to break it. Felix watches Dimitri, who peers closely at the label on the bottle, twists and turns it in each hand. He holds it to his ear for a moment, frowning. What is he listening for, Felix wonders. Is he actually worried about poison?

Sylvain starts in on more jousting discussion, begging Dedue for his opinion. Dedue, who harbors no desire to participate in any tournament nor any esteem for Faerghus traditions, indulges him anyway. 

Felix looks away from Dimitri. He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes, scoffs at or else ignores all of Sylvain’s taunts. He’s grateful to Dedue for taking the brunt of the inane questions for the moment, plus all of Sylvain’s incessant comments about ladies and favors and wounded honor.

_Smash._

He opens his eyes. Turns to Dimitri, who holds the remains of splintered wood in his hands while wine steadily floods the carpet beneath him. 

“What the hell?” Felix says, leaning forward. Ingrid uses an arm to swipe her pile of armor out of the way. 

With a frown, Sylvain scoots toward the mess and starts picking up the largest of the splinters. “Yeesh, Dimitri, is it really that bad?”

“I am sorry,” says Dimitri. “I thought….I was hoping to find, um, never mind.”

Dedue intercepts the fallen papers before they can become prey to the wine. “It is alright, Dimitri. Would you like me to request some more?” 

“No, there is no need. I cannot trust my strength with such narrow-necked bottles.”

Dimitri takes his cloak from the back of his seat and uses it to mop up what he can on the sodden furs below. Sylvain winces at the sight (“It’s a nice cloak, Ingrid!”). Felix stoops to retrieve the armor pieces that Ingrid can’t carry, moves them to the couch. He sees Dimitri stare intently at the inside shell of the bottle like he’s trying to read something there, but eventually he lets the pieces go as Dedue scoops them up in the cloak.

Felix meets his eyes then, or thinks he does, but Dimitri looks through him, a furrow in his brow. 

“Forgive me,” he says. “It’s getting late, and I must be preparing for supper. I shall see you all later.” And with a sharp turn on his heel, Dimtri strolls away, not back through the suite to his bedroom, but out the door and across the hall to his study once more. Felix frowns after him.

“Who bent his branch in half?” Sylvain says to no one in particular.

Felix doesn’t answer, but his unease begins to increase.

~

When the first delivery happens, Felix only sees it because he’s watching Dimitri’s end of the table. The others are enjoying their time catching up: Sylvain listens with rapt and amused attention while Annette regales him with her students’ exploits at the School of Sorcery. Ashe, Ingrid, and Mercedes are discussing new developments at Garreg Mach. Dedue is momentarily absent, having gone to sort out a disagreement between some guards and the kitchen staff about their meal. 

Felix has deliberately given Dimitri some space tonight, choosing to let him speak to their friends rather than go over the day’s minutiae, complaining about the advisors twice their age and doubly set in their ways, as they usually do when Felix is working in town. It isn’t every day when the former Blue Lions class are all together. And besides, this allows Felix the opportunity to watch Dimitri more closely. 

So far, he’s not thrilled at what he sees. Likely earlier in the day, Dimitri can’t keep his eye off the door for more than two minutes at a time. He lifts every item placed in front of him, peering under goblets and plates, poking between the stems of winter lilies in the centerpiece.

They dine privately tonight, the king and his friends, intent on filling each other in with the latest to do before tomorrow’s planning meetings begin. Evenings like these are some of the only times when Dimitri does not have dozens of eyes on him at any given moment. So it is only Felix who notices a servant quietly slip up to Dimitri’s side and hand him a letter. In the candlelight Felix catches sight of a wax seal: silver. From the church? Dimitri pockets the letter with a nod at the messenger and resumes picking at his meal. 

Felix lets fall a bite of mutton from his fork, frowns, and tucks in again to eat. There is something odd about this whole evening—Dimitri eating less than usual, hardly pretending to enjoy as he might normally do. Remaining agitated and morose, speaking to Dedue occasionally, sometimes looking with soft approval on the conversations of his friends. All of that can be written off, Felix supposes. Dimitri has never liked celebrating his birthday, and this one will involve much more fanfare than usual.   
  
But then receiving personal correspondence in the middle of a meal….it gives Felix pause. Why then? Why did the servant not wait until Dimitri had retired for the night? Unless it contains something urgent that needs to be in the king’s hands right away, but even then it seems excessive.

Felix didn’t miss the anticipatory glance crossing Dimitri’s face when he reached for it. So this must be what’s kept him anxious. A minor thing, probably, but the letter burrows its way into Felix’s mind like a moth nesting in old winter clothes. He waits to see if Dimitri will read it there, but evidently he’s chosen to wait.

Felix catches Sylvain looking at him then, eyebrow raised in silent inquiry. Felix shakes his head and goes back to eating. 

Dedue returns not long after this, mutters something to Dimitri, and settles into his supper again. And then Felix is distracted by Annette, smiling at some tale of a boy nearly setting his dormitory on fire. He avoids looking too long at Dimitri or Sylvain. The evening continues. 

At the end of the night, when they’re all spent from too much food and wine and reminiscing, Dimitri takes his leave before Felix has the chance to speak with him. Dedue follows shortly thereafter. He watches them go, staring after the door for a moment, before Sylvain interrupts him. 

“Something up?” 

Felix draws his gaze away from the door. “No.”

Should he tell Sylvain? It’s possible that he, too, had seen the odd delivery. And Felix knows he can trust him with almost anything these days. But one stray letter is hardly worth confiding.

Sylvain’s eyes are too perceptive even when drinking, but he smiles and doesn’t press. And that’s all there is to it, for now.

~

Morning brings the arrival of the region’s top ministers, of everything from culture to security to foreign policy. Their agenda is a mile long, and Felix is bored from the start. He sits between Sylvain and Dedue, Ingrid and Ashe among the row of knights behind them. For Dimitri’s sake, he tries not to frown so pointedly while deliberations ensue—far be it from Felix to speak up on the amount of grain the castle needs to divert from storage (what little they had stored) to prepare adequate feasts for the events ahead. He perks up only when one of the generals confirms a delivery of new weapons for the city troops, a decision Felix helped oversee himself. 

Dimitri is holding up the same as always. Even at his young age, he’s already mastered the kingly expression, a mixture of mild interest and authority. Today’s is more severe than usual, the only hint that Dimitri’s mind is not fully focused on the matters at hand. Felix peeks up at him from the corner of his eye, not wanting to draw attention. 

The meeting adjourns for lunch, after which they have a short scheduled break before reconvening. Felix heads off Dimitri before he can retreat to his office. “Spar with me,” he says by way of invitation. 

Dimitri gives a small smile. “Very well.”

Sparring serves two purposes, in Felix’s view. Aside from the exercise and training, it clears his mind and gives him free rein to check on Dimitri. Not that Dimitri needs supervision. It’s only that he wants Dimitri to be healthy, wants him to keep his spine from collapsing due to excessive paperwork, to make sure his complexion isn’t too pale, to see whether his stamina—whether he can still pin Felix to the ground in under two minutes.

“First to five?” Dimitri asks when they’re in position in the yard. They’ve shed their jackets, and Dimitri’s shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. There’s a dark blue streak of something along his wrist.

Felix nods. Dimitri claims an easy hit off the bat, a glancing blow to Felix’s covered elbow. “Not letting me win, I hope.” 

Felix shakes it off, trying but failing to scowl, relieved at Dimitri’s good mood. “I’ve never let you win in my life, don’t expect me to start now.” 

He’s not about to tell Dimitri the real reason for his slip, as that would involve admitting he’d been preoccupied with Dimitri’s forearms. 

“I hope the wine from last night is not getting to you.”

“No, though Sylvain plied me with plenty.” Thank Sothis, Felix now has the conversational opening he wants, much sooner than he expected. He circles Dimitri, one foot over the other. “You looked like you could have used more.”

“I apologize, I had hoped to keep my paltry worries away from you all.” With a twist of his arm, his wooden sword blocks Felix’s advance. 

But Felix goes in for another strike at Dimitri’s knees. “Something you read? I saw you with a note.”

Dimitri sidesteps, frowning. “Oh, that. It was nothing.”

Felix tries again. Peers into Dimitri’s face while he says, “It didn’t seem like nothing, if you accepted it during a private meal.”

He grunts as Dimitri parries and forces him back out of range. 

“Yes, I suppose that would seem rather unusual. However, it was of no importance, I can assure you.”

Felix grits his teeth. Nothing in Dimitri’s expression gives anything away, but he doesn’t believe it. What else can be causing the circles under Dimitri’s eyes to darken again? Frustration builds in his grip and he overswings, allowing Dimitri another hit to his side. 

“Two,” Felix acknowledges. “What about that ink on your wrist, then?”

Dimitri glances down and Felix lunges, landing a touch under his arm. Dimitri rolls his shoulder and looks back at him with a fresh challenge in his eye.

“That was a dirty trick,” he says. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“An accident. You’ve seen the state of my desk.”

Felix smirks. “Regrettably.” 

He’s not satisfied, however. The ink hadn’t been there at dinner, meaning Dimitri had either done extra work after hours, or he had stayed up to answer that letter. 

The round soon ends, with Dimitri the victor. Felix let his guard down with little knowledge to show for it. He dusts off his vest as Dimitri straightens himself to resume another few hours of discussion with too many people for any real progress. 

“Thank you for the spar, Felix,” he says, unrolling his sleeves and tucking them back into his gloves. 

Felix mumbles a reply, but it gets lost as they reenter the bustling halls. 

~ 

That evening, Felix hopes to corner Dimitri again, ask for another spar if need be. They sometimes go a round in the evening to shake out the day and test their limits in low light, though less frequently now that the weather has grown cold and wind seeps through cracks in the stones. 

Dimitri is not in his quarters, nor his office. A candle burns low on the desk, perilously close to some notices from the high council. Felix blows it out, splattering wax onto the wood. He glances around, but no one is nearby, so he lets himself out again. Someone else can clean it up later.

From the balcony, he can see that the courtyard they most often use for training is empty. Felix hears the pattering of steps from servants in the hallways below him, followed by the slower, heavier footfalls of the guard on patrol. No sign of the king.

Felix traces the path of Dimitri’s usual haunts. The lower reception room: currently being cleaned. The private tea parlor: Sylvain and Ingrid are playing cards with Annette. Felix stays hidden before they inevitably draw him in to complete their set. 

It’s too late in the day for Dimitri to be out riding, but Felix peeks out a window at the stables anyway. Nothing there.

Annoyed, Felix strolls his way into the library at the end of the same hall. All is quiet; a soft light beneath the door behind the librarian’s desk indicates that she is likely tucked away with a book herself. Scanning the shelves, he sees another light on the upper level, treads carefully up the stairs and around to the hidden tables there. 

Dimitri’s fur cloak gives him away before his face does, mostly because his face is currently buried in his arms atop the pages of an open book. Felix can almost make out the rustling of paper as Dimitri breathes.

Of course he’s asleep here. He couldn’t take his reading material to his own room like any other sane person would do. 

Felix approaches silently. Perhaps he can look at what’s got Dimitri so engrossed, hidden away up here. There are extra papers sticking out from beneath the book, but Dimitri’s hair is blocking most of their contents. He spies the words ‘Leicester’ and ‘treaties,’ darts a look at Dimitri before bringing his hand down to slide the corner of the paper out from under the book’s weight— 

Dimitri sits up abruptly, his shoulder colliding with Felix’s forehead. 

“Gah!” Felix cries.

“Who’s there?” Dimitri lurches backward. The chair screeches against the paneled floor. “Felix! What—did I?”

“Shut up. You’ll alert the whole castle.” He massages the side of his head. Dimitri reaches a hand out and looks quizzically at Felix, who rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ve forgotten you sleep like a beast in the wild, that’s all.”

Dimitri sighs. “I am sorry. Does it hurt badly?”  
  
“Never mind me. I came to ask if you would spar again, but I can see you’re in no state for it.”

He takes the moment to glance at the papers again now that Dimitri is no longer covering them. Something something, history of Alliance relations with Faerghus, written 1179, an account by his honorable grace Duke Riegan, with counterpoint annotations from Count Galatea. Next to it are notes from Dimitri himself, the lines having become more slanted lower down the page. More interesting is what’s circled, a word beginning with G—Goneril? Felix can’t make out the handwriting.

“Alliance research? You have assistants for this,” he snaps. “The summit has been planned for over a year. What else needs looking into at this point?”

“Ah,” Dimitri says. “Nothing of import. I’d had a thought earlier…” He gathers up the papers and stuffs them in the book, closing it and tucking it under his arm. “Something about the trade...never mind. I am happy to spar with you again, if that is what you wish.”

“No, you need to sleep.” Felix brushes some book dust off of Dimitri’s cape. “I’ll see you to your rooms to make sure you don’t wander off again.”

“Very well.” Dimitri is staring at him, and a smile plays about his mouth. Felix turns away and heads for the stairs so he doesn't have to see it. “Will you tuck me in and read me a story, too, Felix?”

“Don’t. I’m not your nursemaid.”

“I would like it though, hearing you read.”

Felix does _not_ blush at that. “Find someone else. Perhaps Margrave Edmund, when he arrives, can lull you to sleep with that droning voice of his.”

They reach the hallway, and Felix leads them around the corner to a staircase that leads directly to the private wing. Dimitri matches his pace easily.

“Ha! He is a celebrated orator, they say. Which reminds me, there was something I wanted to make sure we include in our meeting with him regarding Ailell.”

“You can remember it later,” Felix says. Thankful that his mind can return to the task at hand, ensuring Dimitri rests, and not Dimitri’s stupid smile or the even stupider notion of Felix _reading to him_ , like some caretaker. 

Though it wouldn’t be the first time Felix has spent the night in Dimitri’s quarters. 

Dimitri pauses at his door, which has come upon them without Felix noticing. “Thank you for the escort, Your Grace. You have gotten me home well before curfew, even.”

Felix scoffs, refusing to rise to the bait. Dimitri’s only teasing him to deflect from whatever he was up to earlier. “Go to bed. Don’t make me lock the door to keep you in.”  
  
“It locks from the inside,” Dimitri counters.

“I—it doesn’t matter. Good night.” He shoves Dimitri forward, only managing to move him a few inches, but it’s enough for him to grab the door and pull it closed. 

“Good night, Felix,” Dimitri laughs quietly, as it shuts.   
  
Felix lets out a long breath against the wall. What the fuck is wrong with him? Letting Dimitri distract him like that when _he’s_ the one who’s been so careworn lately. 

It’s only then he remembers the letter again, and curses himself for missing the chance to search Dimitri’s room for it. 

~

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedue looks good in glasses, but doesn’t tell Felix anything he needs. Sylvain gives him two equally distressing theories to worry about. Dimitri’s behavior continues to drive Felix to distraction.

In the morning, Felix finds Dedue in the cramped room he claims as his workspace, around the corner from the royal quarters. If anyone in the castle can see reason, Felix thinks, it will be Dedue.

He sits amid a much tidier scattering of papers, dossiers, and plants, somehow growing with only the slit of light from the narrow window as fuel.

“Felix,” he says calmly. He is wearing the winter sweater Annette made for him. She’d made one for each of them after the war ended; Dedue’s is spun from Duscur wool with green stripes twining like vines across his chest. “How can I help you?”

Felix nods. They do not quite smile at each other, him and Dedue, but things are easier than they had been before. Seeing the role Dedue has carved for himself, without wavering in his loyalty to Dimitri is—well, it would be inspiring if it weren’t so humbling. Someday this man won’t be a reminder of Felix’s failures.

“I have a question. About Dimitri,” he appends. Felix’s eyes focus on the cactus at the corner of the desk. “Have you noticed anything...suspect, lately?”

Dedue inclines his head, one eyebrow raised. 

“You know. Unusual. Out of routine.” Felix crosses and uncrosses his arms. 

“Many things this month are out of routine.” He can feel Dedue looking at him through the glasses he now wears for work. They make him look older and more...domestic, though Felix respects that at least one person in this castle understands the limitations of their body. 

There is a pause as Dedue exhales thoughtfully. “Something is troubling you.”

Felix sighs. “This whole event should be planned for him. Dimitri shouldn’t have to lift a finger beyond what he’s already prepared. He is working too much.”

“How unusual,” Dedue says drily.

Felix flashes him an annoyed look, biting back a reply. Dedue waits. His patience is more steadfast, more infuriating than Dimitri’s, but Felix appreciates the time to collect his thoughts. He doesn’t know why he feels so compelled to pry about this damn letter, but he does anyway. 

“What about the note?”

Dedue glances up from the papers he’d been straightening. “Note?”  
  
“While you were gone, at dinner the other night, someone came in and brought him a letter. It looked...important.”

Another thoughtful pause. Felix watches the slit of light across the desk.

“I want to know if he’s been receiving any other suspicious correspondence. He dodges my questions about it, which means it must be something.”

“I see,” Dedue says.

Still more silence. The light has reached the cactus now, catching on the spines. He resists the urge to poke it. 

“You haven’t seen anything similar?”  
  
“No. Though I do believe His Majesty is entitled to private correspondence, even from one as close to him as you are, Felix.”

Felix bristles. “That’s not—of course he is, I only meant that he’s hiding something this time.”

“If that is the case, we will find out when he chooses to let us know.” Dedue’s expression is weary. His tone suggests an end to conversation.

“Fine. Will you at least tell me if you notice anything?”

At this Dedue shakes his head. “I am afraid I will not be in the castle for the next few days.”  
  
“What do you mean, not here?” Felix asks, voice raised. Then takes a deep breath to calm himself. Yet another irregularity. 

“I will be going out to meet the Archbishop’s party as it journeys north.”  
  
“What for?”

“Dimitri has requested it.”

 _Dimitri_ , and not His Majesty this time. Felix remembers Dedue after the war, upon agreeing to serve in the castle of the kingdom that massacred his people, telling Felix _I serve Dimitri, not Faerghus._

“The Archbishop can take care of herself. Why would she need the escort? And why…” Felix trails off, nodding at the stack of work on Dedue’s desk.

Dedue somehow sees through his thoughts. “Do not worry for my sake. I will be safe. And nothing here will go undone in my absence. I have obtained help in that quarter.”  
  
“Who?” Felix meets his eyes. Grateful that he doesn’t have to admit his reliance on Dedue is almost as heavy as Dimitri’s.

He expects Dedue to name Annette, or Ashe. “Sylvain.”

Felix raises both his eyebrows. “Really?” 

He shifts his weight. Why, in this time of extra daily turmoil, would Dimitri send his closest, his _best_ fr—well, surely that would be Felix, wouldn’t it, but then again, it’s selfish to name himself so high in esteem when he spends less time here than Dedue. 

He can’t make sense of this. But it’s not worth the trouble for the moment. Facts are facts, and he will have to make do in this situation alone, while Dedue is away if he must. 

The light now catches on Dedue’s lenses, as Dedue pulls a quill pen out of a drawer and dips it in ink. “If that is all, I am afraid I must return to my work. I leave tomorrow at first light; should you need me before then, I am at your disposal, as much as I can be.”

Felix grunts. Clears his throat. Finally scratches out a “thank you” as he turns and briskly strolls out of the office. 

~

Five days post-letter, Felix has nearly forgotten about it. The meetings and tasks pile up, and with Dimitri and Dedue avoiding further inquiries—it was only one letter, after all, how much attention does it really deserve—it slips from Felix’s mind as easily as it entered. 

Until today, when Felix is in the ground level sitting room of one of the castle towers, listening to the captain of the castle guard describe his plans for castle security during the festivities the following week.

It is a sitting room, but they are standing. Felix does not sit for personal meetings if he can avoid it; standing adds pressure and keeps things from dragging on when they only need a few minutes at most. Indecision and bickering drive him mad. 

“We have fresh troops in from the northeast training barracks,” the captain—Devin? Darin? whatever—says. He’s a stout man in his early forties, one of the ranks who’d survived the war. 

“Good. Make sure they are accompanied by two of the most experienced platoons, should they slip up.” 

“They will be manning the ramparts, Your Grace. Young eyes are sharpest, after all.”

Felix nods in assent. That’s Ashe’s territory; they’ll be in good hands. “And what of the barracks here? His Majesty wishes the guards to have every accommodation they need.”

It is at Dimitri’s request that Felix is having this meeting, in fact. He straddles the line between leading and coddling at times, but morale has never been higher among the soldiers. Every so often the officers will request that Dimitri train with the knights stationed here, to keep them on their toes. Of course it never fails—anyone who sees Dimitri’s strength and prowess is sure to be impressed. Felix forgets that not all have seen it, grew up with it as he did.

“We have all the accommodations needed, thank you, Your Grace. Please give His Majesty our utmost gratitude.”

“Mm. And the supplies?” 

“Delivered on schedule, my lord.”

“Then everything is settled.” Felix moves to shake his hand. “See to it that the soldiers aren’t idle, Captain.”

“That I will.” Captain Derrick (that’s the name!) lifts his hand to grasp Felix’s, revealing an envelope tucked into his waistband. One with a strikingly familiar silver seal.

Felix’s eyes widen. “That letter. Who is it for?”

The captain looks down. “This here? For His Majesty, now that you mention it. I’m on my way to deliver it to him now.”

Yes, it’s the same seal as before, Felix is sure of it. “Allow me. I’m sure you have work to do.”

“Ah, I thank you, Your Grace.” Derrick covers the letter with his hand again. “However, I’m under strict instructions to deliver it into the king’s hands. No exceptions, I’m sure you understand.”

Felix frowns, takes a moment to consider. On the one hand, odds are high he can snatch it from the captain before he can blink. On the other, he will look like a demanding child. And it’s sure to be Dimitri’s instructions that the captain follows.

“Who writes to the king, then, with so much security involved?”

The captain smiles knowingly. “If I knew that, my lord, I’m sure I wouldn’t have to tell _you_.”

“It’s in my interests to make sure the king is safe,” Felix bites back, just on this side of politeness. 

“And there we are in complete agreement. Good day, Your Grace.”

With a salute, he exits the tower into the lower courtyard. Felix’s mood plummets, irritation and worry settling low in his stomach. But he lingers casually, peers around the doorway as the captain ascends the far stairs toward the center of the castle. This is as good a chance as Felix will get.

He tries to look unassuming while in pursuit. It’s a perfectly normal thing for Felix to be seen walking with purpose towards Dimitri’s rooms. And when the captain veers right into the grand dining hall, it is perfectly normal for Felix to pass through as well. Lunch is nigh, and the center table will be filling up soon with food brought up from the kitchen.

It is also normal, to a lesser extent, for Felix to be cut off by Sylvain, drink in hand and smile plastered on his face. 

“Felix! Fancy seeing you here.” Sylvain moves to sling his arm around Felix’s shoulders, but Felix ducks out of the way as usual. “Join me for lunch? Pickled rabbit skewers today.” 

“Shh,” Felix hisses. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the captain, standing in the far corner of the room and handing an ivory envelope to Dimitri. Dimitri says something unintelligible to the captain, who nods and walks away. Dimitri exits the other direction whence he came, and Felix can see him beginning to slit open the paper as he disappears through the doorway. 

“What was that about?” Sylvain asks in a low voice to Felix’s left. 

“Nothing.” How had the captain known where to find Dimitri at this hour? Technically the grand hall does provide a shortcut to the reception room; that must be it. 

Felix is torn, wanting to go after Dimitri and also to confide in Sylvain. The latter impulse wins out, mostly by point of Sylvain being at his side and Dimitri already out of sight. 

He checks their surroundings, but the hall is still empty. Regardless, he drags Sylvain over to the side where they are less likely to be interrupted by future lunch goers. 

“Listen, do you remember at dinner the other night?”

“What about dinner?” Sylvain asks.

“Dimitri received a letter, very discreetly.”

Sylvain quirks an eyebrow. “I think so. Is that what you were looking all bunched up about? It’s just a letter.” 

“Is it,” Felix says. 

“What makes you think it’s something to worry about?” 

There’s wine swirling in Sylvain’s goblet. Felix glances at it and shoots Sylvain a pointed look. Sylvain raises a hand in innocence. “I’m tasting it, on Dedue’s orders, I swear!”

Of course he is. Felix scowls and shakes his head. “We just saw him receive another one. They bear a seal I don’t recognize. He refuses to tell me what they are.”

A pause as Sylvain takes another sip, considering it before sighing in satisfaction. “Not the best vintage Fhirdiad has in its cellars, but this will do nicely. Felix, it’s probably fine. It’s not like someone can poison him through letters.”

Felix, who has been massaging his temples, stops at that. Poisoning is _exactly_ the sort of thing one could do in an illicit letter. They make powders for that purpose. Is Dimitri wearing his gloves today? Felix hasn’t considered this consequence before—an inexcusable lapse on his part, but surely he can stop Dimitri before— 

“Whoa, whoa, calm down. It was a bad joke, my mistake.”

Sylvain looks intently at him, searches his face; Felix’s expression must have given him away. 

“It’s not funny.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Really.” He offers his wine to Felix, who waves it away. “Hmm, you know what, maybe they’re love letters. Someone pouring their heart out to His Majesty in the vain hope they can win him over. He’d certainly want to keep those private,” he says, grinning slyly.

Heat flows unbidden to Felix’s face. “Who could possibly…? When does Dimitri ever have time to meet anyone?” he asks, incredulous. 

“Who knows? You’re not here all the time. Maybe—”

“They’re _not_ love letters,” Felix grits out. He snatches the cup and tosses back quite a bit more than a sip. He pulls a face, swallowing.

“Hey now, that’s meant to be _savored!_ ” protests Sylvain. He retrieves his drink with an exasperated sigh. “Come on, I’ll pour you one proper with lunch.”

The wine doesn’t help, nor do the admittedly delicious pickled rabbit skewers. Instead they swirl in tandem with the anxiety in Felix’s gut at the not one but two ludicrous ideas Sylvain put into his head. Powdered poison? Love letters? Fucking Saint Seiros, Felix has never heard more idiotic suppositions.

But even held at swordpoint, Felix wouldn’t be able to admit which is worse. 

~  
  


Sharp-edged silver slices past Felix’s neck. He leans out of the way and throws his sword up to parry as the lance swings back in for another blow.

“You’re holding me off well,” he says. 

Ingrid smiles in challenge. “The war has ended, but my duty has not. I’m still training just as often as you, you know.” 

She switches grip on her lance and squares off again. This time they clash repeatedly, Ingrid bringing him to bear right, left, across his waist, extending the reach of her weapon as far as she can to avoid his speed. But while she maintains a strong stance for leverage, Felix ducks in and out to force an opening. Both his sword and the morning sunlight glint off her armor. He keeps one eye on her weapon and one on her feet.

True to form, Ingrid drives forward before surging her lance upward between his arms. It’s a move he’s seen many times before; in a flash, he’s back as a child, in this same inner training yard, watching Glenn practice this same move while Ingrid spied on them from behind the corner wall. Without thinking, Felix mirrors the motions: a two-handed cross swing to stop her momentum, then a swipe under the arm at her exposed side. 

But Ingrid is ready for him—after her strike, she counters immediately with a shoulder block and jabs him with the butt of the lance to his stomach. He leaps out of the way soon enough for it to miss its mark and catch his hip instead—not the solid hit she sought, but enough to knock him off balance. 

He breathes heavily and shakes out his free arm. “That’s new.”

“Well,” she laughs, panting. “We can’t use the same moves forever.”

“Fine then. Let’s see how you fare this time.”

They face each other, and Felix raises his sword. Before he moves, however, a shadow catches his eye on the balcony above. A servant, heading toward the upper hall of the king’s quarters, with a letter-sized parchment in hand.

Felix wastes no time. He sheathes the sword and turns to run for the stairs behind them. 

“Felix?” Ingrid calls. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back. Don’t wait.”

“What—Felix! Is everything alright?” 

He doesn’t answer, straining to see which direction the messenger went. It’s one of the main household staff, their dark blue robes recognizable but not overt among the castle decor. Meant to be in the background only.

Dimitri always receives the morning round of correspondence with his breakfast—if he can be convinced to eat—and then nothing else until after the day’s visitations. Then Dedue or Felix or some member of staff will deposit the newest paperwork and any late mail onto the pile atop Dimitri’s sprawling royal desk. (Nearly half the size of a horse stall and with papers scattered like straw, it’s only due to Dimitri’s royal decorum that there isn’t piss and shit in the corners as well, Felix thinks.)

Which is why Dedue and Annette have drawn up the work schedule in the first place, so the young king won’t drive himself to an early grave over trivialities. Such as these damn letters.

He suspects Dimitri isn’t sleeping again. At dawn this morning, Felix saw a candlelit shadow skulking in the castle chapel as he walked past on his way to train. When he went to investigate, it was empty, but Felix knows it must have been him. Dimitri often spends hours there when overwhelmed, to let the silence banish his thoughts.

But there is no such thing as true silence for Dimitri.

Felix rounds the corner at a walk now. No need to rush when he can easily see the destination. The blue-robed servant enters Dimitri’s office just as expected, and a few seconds later exits without the letter. 

Wait, as expected? Dimitri shouldn’t be in his office right now, he should be in the small reception room where he hears complaints from his various staff or minor city officials, with far more patience than a king should need. 

He strolls toward the arched doorway as the servant returns. “Where is D—the king?” he demands.

“His Majesty is in the study, my lord.” The man gives a short bow and hurries away. Felix frowns.

Sure enough, Dimitri is sitting behind his monstrous desk. Felix barges in and over to him, immediately spying the now open letter discarded on top of the pile.

“Felix!” Dimitri starts. 

He ignores him, scanning the paper. He checks the underside for the seal. This one isn’t the silver from before, but a slate gray, with the School of Sorcery emblem stamped in the wax. It’s nothing more than a fundraising letter, with a perfunctory appeal to His Majesty Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, of the newly united nation of Fódlan, to attend the Annual Exhibition of Magic and Sport at the end of Guardian Moon, of which this is the third reminder thus sent. 

Felix tosses it on the floor. “What is this nonsense? Why was such a notice delivered to you personally at this time of day? And what are you doing in here anyway?”

“I could ask the same of you.” 

Dimitri’s eyebrow is raised. He pauses over a list of names and scribbled complaints that one of his assistants had compiled from the other day, leaning back in his clawed chair. “Is there something the matter?”

Felix stares at him before ducking his head in mild embarrassment. “Nothing. Only that you are in here poring over papers when you shouldn’t be.”

“I am free to look over my documents as I like, Felix.”

He is calm, but Felix knows Dimitri’s irritation when he hears it. He’s heard it more often in the past weeks than the previous year, it seems. 

“There is no reason to bother yourself with this drivel right now. If you won’t tell me what you’re really working on, I will be forced to conclude the worst.”

Dimitri sighs. “If this is about those letters again…”

“Since you refuse to enlighten me, I must take matters into my own hands,” Felix says, glaring.

“You must not. Felix,” Dimitri tries a more supplicating tone, “why will you not listen to me when I say it is nothing?”

“Because it’s _not_ nothing! You—” 

“There are some matters that need not concern you, or anyone, until I decide they do. I cannot…” A sharp exhale. “I will not discuss them with you now.” He stands. Several piles of paper fall onto the floor. “Now if you don’t mind, I have business to return to. I will join you for lunch.”

And Dimitri actually guides Felix out of the room, his oversized hands on Felix’s shoulders as they walk through the doorway and into the hall. Felix is so shocked he doesn’t resist, doesn’t say anything until the study door shuts in his face. And then he fumes.

But at last, Felix now knows he is in the right. Working at all hours, reading every piece of mail without delay, shoving Felix out of the way...Dimitri is most certainly hiding something from him. 

And that’s without taking into account the books on his desk, tucked under more scrawled notes but not far enough out of view for Felix to miss their contents. _Plagues and Pestilence Between the Years 1100-1175_. _Foreign_ _Diplomacy in the Age of Treason_ , 1180. 

Felix, out of sight from anyone who would notice, runs a hand through his bangs uneasily. Nothing good comes from revisiting tragedy, reliving events that occupied Dimitri for so long, unless he believes them relevant again. 

There is no other conclusion to reach.

Is there? 

~

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a fancy state dinner. Felix catches a messenger, and later enlists Ashe’s help in breaking into Dimitri’s things to investigate the letters. Feelings ensue.

A few days pass in similar patterns of boredom and frustration. Felix busies himself in his rooms with matters in Fraldarius, writing hurried instructions to his uncle about the management of winter resources, adding to the list of local shipmongers concerns about Alliance seafaring to be discussed in the Summit, confirming and reconfirming that he’ll be home at the end of the Moon to be present for the holiday gatherings.

They meet in the mornings thrice weekly with royal and city officials to hear status reports and adjustments to the festival planning. Felix trains, before and after meetings. Goes shopping with Annette and wine tasting (again) with Sylvain. Ingrid is his most reliable sparring partner, which he encourages mostly so he won’t have to hear her talk about His Majesty’s plans for the knights, or His Majesty’s thoughtfulness to the poor, or His Majesty’s gifts to her family in Galatea. Or worse, her lectures on how Felix should be spending more time in Fraldarius overall and less time pestering _His Majesty_. 

During the few times Felix wants to keep an eye on Dimitri, the man is frustratingly absent. He skips the advisory meetings twice in a row. He cuts short his session with the city guild union leaders, sends apologetic baskets of food to the monks at the cathedral instead of attending that week’s services. Takes more than a few of his meals in his room with no company. 

So when he does catch a glimpse of him, Felix examines all he can. He follows Dimitri as sneakily as possible between engagements, but Dimitri shuts himself up in his quarters more often than not. 

Saints in Ailell. He hadn’t realized that serving as Duke under King Dimitri would involve so much babysitting. Felix almost prefers paperwork to chasing a petulant Dimitri around. Almost.

Outside the king’s office, he comes upon a guard, one of the younger soldiers on rotation inside the castle. Felix nods gruffly at him. “Where is His Majesty?” he asks.

“I’ve not seen him today, sir.” The guard looks helpless in the face of Felix’s irritation. Sighing, Felix does his best to school his features into a more neutral expression. 

“When did you see him last?”

“Uh, I believe he left his chambers after breakfast, my lord.”

“Hmph.” Unhelpful, as usual. _Haven’t seen him_ —how can anyone possibly miss Dimitri, he’s a great big lumbering hulk of a man, with his stupid golden hair and eyepatch and his gleaming armor (when he wears it) reflecting everything that catches his light.

Felix should be working—the heavens know he has a mountain of paperwork and requests to get through at any given moment—but he can’t. He lets his feet carry him in frustrated loops around the castle, down all the main hallways and some hidden ones, past the reception rooms and the throne room and the banquet hall. Out into the small inner courtyard where restless, bored knights play at training. Through the arched doorways to the outer courtyard and the stables. 

The weather hasn’t been kind lately, winds bristling in from the northeast as if they too were guests for the summit, but Dimitri rides out most days, to keep himself sane. Felix sees his favorite horses there, meaning Dimitri is not out. A temptation pokes at his mind to ask the stablehands about Dimitri’s riding times and whereabouts over the past few days. It must be how he delivers his answering letters without going through his administration. But Felix doesn’t frequent the stables often, and he doesn’t know how to learn what he needs without being suspicious. 

Sylvain could do it, Felix realizes grudgingly. He’s in here charming the horses and stablehands alike more often than not. Not nearby at the moment, however.

And when Felix does see his friends, they are somehow less helpful than the staff. “Felix, you know he is preoccupied,” Ingrid tells him during one after lunch spar. Annette in the library thinks she saw Dimitri head for his rooms with some books. Sylvain is convinced that Dimitri is finally heeding his advice and is taking time to relax in the magically-heated bathtub Sylvain had installed in Dimitri’s rooms. “You could use a good soak yourself, Felix. Get all of that tension out before the state dinner tonight.”

Felix swats at Sylvain’s arm without thinking, ignoring Sylvain’s breath of laughter. Dinner— he’d forgotten about tonight’s meal with the other Faerghus officials who have already arrived from outer territories. It’s a less ostentatious affair than what next week will bring, a chance for the more local ruling parties to run the course of political gossip and social climbing and cement their status before the Alliance parties join them. Dimitri must also be there, of course. And so will the castle guards under Captain Derrick, and everyone else swarming in to keep Fhirdiad safe and thriving.

Sure enough, when Felix has bathed and changed into one of his more formal, pressed outfits, he finds Dimitri among the crowd thronging the smaller banquet room. The king stands politely near the main table, listening as two minor lords from the west take advantage of their best opportunity to speak to him. His face gives nothing away, but Felix can see by the way Dimitri’s hand flexes not-so-casually over the hilt of a dagger at his hip that even Dimitri would rather be anywhere else. 

The long table is set with plates of cured meats and cheeses, hunks of bread and thin salty wafers from the south, appetizers to the larger roasts and soups and pies that will be carried out in the next hour. Felix nibbles at a bit of ham between two crackers and watches Dimitri, already having gone through one round of his own small talk. The lord his uncle sent from Fraldarius wanted Felix to confirm everything previously confirmed via letter. Felix liked the lord well enough: small and wiry, maybe ten years older than himself, little fighting experience but the most precise memory for numbers Felix has known. It’s as much of a relief for Felix to hear that things are still running smoothly in his homeland when he is not there.

Sylvain wanders into Felix’s eyeline. “Here,” he says, shoving a goblet of wine into Felix’s free hand. “You’ll like this one, it’s just sailed in from Morfis.”

“Stop foisting your duties on me. I’ve tasted enough wines this week to last a lifetime,” Felix grumbles. He takes the drink anyway.

Sylvain smiles, then sighs and brushes hair away from his face. “Flaming valley of Ailell, it’s warm in here.”

“It’s fine. You’re just overdressed.”

“I thought half of these fireplaces were for decoration,” he says. “All these people...I don’t want to think about how stuffy it’ll be during the actual festival.”

“Maybe you’ll learn how to dress properly then.”

“That’s rich coming from you. You’d wear the same thing every day if you could.”

Felix rolls his eyes, finally tearing them away from Dimitri. “I wear what is appropriate for the occasion. You’re thinking of Ingrid.” 

Sylvain laughs. “You’re right. Did you know she wanted to wear her old war uniform to her knighting ceremony? I had to steal it from her wardrobe so she wouldn’t. Even Ashe dresses better than her. Thank the Goddess she’s a knight and has her armor to wear everyday now.”

Felix snorts. Across the room he can see the two knights chatting now—Ingrid and Ashe, so happy in their places and certain in their futures in the kingdom. Unlike the rest of the patrols milling in the tight crowd, they don’t report to the captain, though their units operate together. Tonight their duties are relaxed. Visiting officials pose little threat other than using up all of Felix’s patience with their ceaseless talk.

He keeps one eye on the flow of people around the room; some habits from war die harder than others. Most are grouped in clusters in front of each of the room’s several hearths, while others press in on the unsubtle line leading to where Dimitri stands not ten meters away. Felix wants to go up to him, interrupt whatever nonsense he’s entertaining from the current lord and lady. When Dimitri catches him looking, his brow compresses in a slight frown like a question, but Felix averts his gaze.

There are guards at each door to the hall, one on each side, and they stand with more lax posture than their captain would normally allow. Some are flushed, either from drink or the atmosphere of merriment, tossing jokes back and forth out of notice from the guests. Felix recognizes most of the officials present, and Sylvain has filled him in on the rest. None of the staff or soldiers are new to him, but he scans all the same, to be sure. 

Felix is not paranoid. He is careful. He does his duty by his friends when they draw him into conversation as he goes to refill his plate. Tries his best to shake off his irritation at Dimitri by bringing him a plate of cheese and bread and tersely telling the nobles to let the king eat a morsel of food before they drain him of energy completely.

“Thank you, Felix,” Dimitri says, accepting the plate. “Though you did not have to be so rude to the Gideons.”

Felix doesn’t care about the Gideons; whatever young lord has lately come into prominence in that family takes up no space in his thoughts. “You need to eat. If you let everyone talk you into oblivion, you’ll never have a moment for your own needs.”

Dimitri holds a piece of cheese in two fingers, using it to nudge the other food around while he stares idly at the nearest fireplace. “I must admit, I am not terribly hungry.”

“Fine then, don’t eat.” Felix remembers a tactic he’s had to deploy in the past, whenever Dimitri refuses food: “Let the staff think you care not for all the effort they put in on your behalf.”

Dimitri frowns and looks at him quickly. But he lifts the cheese to his mouth and eats as instructed. He swallows. “They should not have to bother with so much.”

“How can you expect to serve your people if you don’t take care of yourself?” asks Felix. This is tired ground between them, and he sees Dimitri recognize the pattern, laughing softly through his nose. 

“You are right, of course. For them, and for you, I will persevere.” 

His voice is low and warm, and Felix finds himself annoyed at the stupidly earnest tone. He doesn’t have time to process or respond as Sylvain sidles up to Dimitri’s other side. 

“And how are the two most eligible bachelors in Fódlan doing tonight?” Sylvain says with far too much cheer, draping his arm like a second cape around Dimitri’s shoulders. Other than Dedue, he is the only one tall enough to do so. 

“Sylvain, you leave yourself off that list,” says Dimitri with good humor. 

“Yes, but how can anyone look at me when His Majesty the Savior King is in the room!” Sylvain grins. “Even Felix agrees, don’t you?”

Felix gulps down the sip of wine he’s just taken. He agrees that Dimitri is difficult to look away from like this, with his hair combed and swept back, a velvet coat instead of armor, dark pants tucked into boots with care. But people would be looking at him even if he wore a burlap sack and woven straw sandals. He’s their King.

“Leave me out of your nonsense, Sylvain.” He turns away, hoping Dimitri will write off the heat in his face as a consequence of his drink and the growing warmth in the room. Sylvain wasn’t wrong earlier, there truly are far too many people around.

Sylvain and Dimitri continue talking beside him, as he sweeps the room another time, his gaze routine in its path now. Blue-clad castle servants dart between the guests, removing the trays of crumbs from the table. Behind them, the smell of roast and beer and cheese soup wafts in as more staff enter from the back, carrying the platters of the main course. Others press slowly though, bearing the wooden, high-backed seats from where they’d been against each wall (having to pry lounging dignitaries out of some of them first) and line them up around the table in preparation. The king’s carved seat at the table’s head, closest to where they stand now, hasn’t moved. 

In the back doorway where the servants exit, Felix sees two eyes peek around the frame. They find their target, and a skinny figure darts in, dirt smudges on their face and hands clasping something tight to their chest. Felix frowns but lets out a breath. Must be one of the kitchen servants come in with something forgotten. 

Until he sees them approach Captain Derrick, alone and leaning against the pillar of a hearth. The young servant slips an item into the captain’s hand. He peers at the paper and nods, prompting the servant to slink away toward the side door, different from the one they entered. The captain stands at ease, but Felix sees him carefully pocket the envelope and glance meaningfully at Dimitri. He catches Felix looking and nods in acknowledgement. 

Felix stiffens. That paper, it can’t be…

He whips his head around to the door where the messenger ran out. The captain had not been forthcoming with Felix last time he brought up the letters; Felix will have to trace their path from the other end instead.

“Felix?” Dimitri addresses him for the first time in minutes. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he says, on edge. “I...need another drink.” 

Sylvain, out of Dimitri’s view, stares confused at Felix, casts his eyes back at the captain, and then where Felix is looking at the side door. When he meets Felix’s eyes, a silent understanding passes between them. 

“Grab me one too, will you? Hey, Dimitri,” Sylvain says, deftly redirecting Dimitri’s attention to the other side of the room, “tell me about the charming Lady Rowe over there. Is she really groveling at your feet as people say?”

Felix is gone before he hears Dimitri’s response. His prey has already escaped out of sight, and he can’t spare a moment to hesitate. The guests are streaming toward the central table now that more food has arrived, and Felix has to shoulder past some of them to reach the exit. The meal provides enough distraction that he is able to leave without further confrontation.

Racing in the direction of the kitchens, he prays his instincts are on target—there, a flutter of movement down the stairs! 

He rushes past servants returning from the banquet with used dishes and cutlery; some try to bow at him in apology, but he ignores them. There is a back door here where supplies and ingredients make their way to the castle storage from the small servant courtyard. It is this path he takes. Anyone heading for a quick getaway will likely cut through to the harbor road, or perhaps steal a horse from the stables.

Breath collects in a mist from his mouth as Felix pushes open the outer door into the cool night air. He pulls his hood up over the nub of his ponytail. It’s long enough to cover his forehead, but only just. Felix has half a mind to let it fall again— it’s useless to hide himself now—but he’d rather the guards on the wall take as little notice of him as possible.

Sure enough, he hears light footsteps not far ahead of him in the yard and peers through the dim light to locate their source. The slim figure of the messenger swings under the beam of the railing and drops to the ground below. Felix pauses, frowning. He slips through the upper door instead, sacrificing speed for stealth. On the other side of the courtyard, he sees the figure dart quickly through the low hedges around the castle to where the servant entrances are. 

The messenger makes a beeline for the back door of the stables, steps light and silent thanks to the noise of the crowd inside. Felix follows close along the wall. His boots may be louder, but he is faster.

“Stop,” he says, low, just as the figure in gray stretches a hand out toward the handle. Felix draws his sword, and the person has enough sense to freeze. He steps closer and points the tip under their ribcage. 

“You delivered a note to the captain of the guard just now.” Felix eyes the youth, takes in the smooth, pointed features. Can’t be older than fourteen. “I need to know what it said.”

“I—I don’t know, sir.”

The voice is higher than he expected. A young girl? He digs the sword in further, catching the fabric of her shabby tunic. “Tell me who it came from, then.” 

“Please my lord, truly I don’t know.” 

He examines her face. Wide eyes, lips parted. Certainly playing the part of fear. Her breathing is calm for someone who ran so recently. A cornered rabbit waiting for the moment to leap. His frown deepens.

“Do _not_ lie to me. You came from somewhere with this message. Somewhere you mean to return to, hm?” Felix flicks a dagger up from his hip in his free hand and tosses it to adjust his grip, his sword still poised at her chest. Eyes still on her face.

The girl swallows. “I beg you, sir. Let me go. I only do as I was told by the other courier.”

“Who was only delivering on orders from someone else,” he growls, rolling his eyes. “I’ve heard it all before. Where did you retrieve the message?”

“At the east gate, sir.”

“Horseshit.” 

No courier service uses the east gate unless it’s direct from Fraldarius or special delivery from a personal correspondent of the royal staff. In which case it passes through all the usual channels of the city guard to the castle. All of the main deliveries use the southern gate where the river bends, Fhirdiad’s primary entrance.

Her eyes flit behind him, but Felix knows better than to look away. The sword point hits flesh now, and she winces. “Please, your Grace, let me go, I swear I know nothing of it. I took the letter from a man down the east gate, who promised me a fat coin to put it in the captain’s hands.”

Felix takes a long breath. So she knows him. Interesting. “And I’m supposed to think you didn’t read it through the second you got out of sight. What did the letter say?”

“No sir, the seal’s unbroken, on my honor, sir!”

Felix scoffs, but his attention is caught by a sound on the rampart above. Must be a few knights rounding the corner on patrol. Damn girl hasn’t given him anything useful, but they’ll be spotted in a minute if they don’t move.

“Listen,” he says, quieter. He slides the dagger back in his belt and pulls out three gold coins from his purse. “I don’t care who gave you the letter. You speak as if you know who I am. Good. If another such letter ends up in your hands, deliver it to me. No matter what you’re instructed.” 

He holds the coins out between two fingers. “I’ll pay double whatever they’ve promised.”

The girl stares at the money and back at him. She shifts her weight and bites her lip as his sword pricks her further. Then she nods eagerly. “Yes, of course, your Grace. You have my word, sir.”

With a grunt, Felix lowers his sword and flicks the coins in the air. The girl snatches them with rather impressive reflexes before scurrying away around the side of the stable, using a hole in the fence to scale it and drop out of sight. 

Felix sighs, knowing he’s just wasted good gold on a dud of a lead. He’ll have to catch the next one before they’ve handed off the letter, he supposes. 

“Felix.”

The voice comes from above, and Felix tenses into fighting position again. On looking, he sees Ashe along the wall, his bow armed but lowered. He must have been watching them for some time.

Felix relaxes his guard. “What?”

Ashe inclines his head to beckon him. With a quiet sigh, Felix nods back and jogs toward the wall. There is no way to return unnoticed any longer, but Felix is glad it’s Ashe who’s spotted him and not an unknown castle guard.

Ashe disappears and reappears in the doorway where Felix exited before. Together they duck inside and out of sight.

“I saw you run out. What’s going on?” Ashe asks, with an intent look. 

Felix shrugs. “It’s nothing. Some petty thief I wanted to catch.”

“Thieves aren’t your job to worry about.” He doesn’t take his eyes from Felix’s face, directly level with his own. “You wouldn’t bribe a thief to come to you with information, Felix.”

 _Shit._ Felix frowns and looks down. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Then what is it?” 

Ashe stands before him in full armor (a sniper’s armor, lighter and more compact than Ingrid’s but still of considerable build) and with a silver bow strapped to his back—one he didn’t have inside, Felix realizes. He, too, would have snuck out of the crowded hall, retrieved his weapon, and followed Felix outside, without being detected. He trained as an assassin during the war, Felix recalls, skilled at stealth and killing alike.

If he tells Ashe about the letters, maybe he can help Felix unravel what they’re about. Ashe is honorable, but not uptight like Ingrid or other knights. He may understand.

“I think,” he begins. He swallows and glances to either side to make sure they are alone. Only the distant sound of staff scuttling back and forth in the hallways between the upper and lower levels reaches his ears, and beyond that some hints of muffled laughter and feasting. No one near enough to hear them. “I think Dimitri may be in danger.” 

Ashe’s eyes widen, his only deviation from calm. “In danger how?”

Felix sighs. “I’ll explain everything, but in return, I need a favor.”

~

After the morning’s meetings, in which the castle treasurer was reluctantly coerced into allowing an extra two thousand gold over their budget to cover more deliveries of flowers and delicacies when the first batches didn’t meet Sylvain’s and Annette’s standards (Felix was not the only one to protest, but Dimitri had waved down all dissent in favor of ending the proceedings), Felix runs upstairs to his rooms, barely concealed frustration evident in his demeanor. Once away from the complaints of the florists and bakers— _two thousand gold_ , he can’t believe how absurd this whole thing has become—he calms himself over a quick lunch in private. Adrenaline and anticipation flow through him for another reason now, much more important.

Ashe meets Felix outside his door minutes later. “Is everything ready?” he asks.

Felix nods. Sylvain will be out in the training yard with Dimitri by now, having promised the king he’d make up for the budget changes with the allure of his own ass-kicking. Felix made some excuse to get out of the sparring, using his very real annoyance with Sylvain to cover his other reasons. Earlier this morning he asked Sylvain to keep Dimitri occupied for an hour, and Felix knows he can trust him to do so. 

The two of them walk in silence down the short hall to the king’s set of rooms, nodding politely and greeting the few who passed them. They enter Dimitri’s private study across from his main chambers.

Ashe takes up a post in sight of the door to prevent any unexpected interruptions. “I still don’t like this. Are you sure Dedue didn’t say anything about the letters when you asked?”

“He knew nothing about them, or else what he knew he didn’t share.” Felix starts grabbing papers indiscriminately off Dimitri’s desk, reading lines here and there before dropping them in a haphazard pile. Most are documents pertaining to the summit agenda, a few regarding the festival of the king’s birthday shoved with less care underneath. None contain any information Felix doesn’t already know.

He sighs in irritation and pulls open the top drawer. A smattering of quills of different lengths, worn or chewed down. A few pots of ink, some spare parchment, blocks of wax alongside the official stamp of the king. Felix picks it up, examines the mold outline of the lion proudly sitting flanked by a smaller eagle and stag. It’s a newer design, commissioned a year after the war to show the unification of the country’s three regions. 

“Anything?” asks Ashe.

Felix shakes his head with a grunt. The next drawer is solely blank pages of paper, curling a bit at the edges from disuse. The two on the right are mostly empty, one with old journals of legislative meetings logged by one of Dimitri’s secretaries. No letters anywhere.

But there is, in the fifth drawer, a golden shield, small enough to fit the palm of his hand. Not quite in the shape of Aegis, but bearing an engraving of the Fraldarius crest outlining the lion emblem of Faerghus, with its own tiny Blaiddyd crest on its chest. On the back is a compass under a glass face. The glass, when twisted, spins around to become a magnifier. 

Felix holds his breath at the sight of it, his face coloring. He runs a thumb along the compass’s ridged border, watches the tremble of the needle as it struggles to stay fixed. 

He had it commissioned after the war, gave it to Dimitri as a gift to represent a new commitment to working with transparency, honesty, and trust. To guiding and leading the first steps of a new nation alongside Dimitri, without the burdens of the past. 

And now here he is, undermining that very trust by rummaging through Dimitri’s personal papers and effects without permission, after repeatedly dismissing Dimitri’s assurances that all is well. With an unwelcome pang, he drops the shield back into the drawer and slides it shut.

He hears movement as Ashe bends to the grate in the fireplace, poking around the cinders. “It doesn’t look like he’s burned any paper recently,” he says. “Does His Majesty have any other place where he keeps important things?” 

Any other place….Felix runs a hand down his face and considers. “I think there’s a chest in his bedroom.” 

Ashe turns to him and frowns. “Felix, surely that’s too private.”

“Are you backing out, then?” Felix counters. He paces around the desk, half-hoping to find a hidden compartment somewhere with some goddess-damned answers. Nothing else in the room is worth checking; there’s nothing else there besides the huge desk, the fireplace, and a small window ledge where a dust-coated teapot and cup rest.

“No,” Ashe finally replies. But he looks worried. Worried for _Felix._

“Good. Let’s go.” 

They sneak across the hall into Dimitri’s rooms, while a guard down the hall is facing the other way. Felix stops to peer around the front sitting room, decorated with lush blue drapes and another, wider fireplace, this one lit. The carpet still bears remnants of the dark wine stain. “You check here,” Felix says, motioning in the direction of the stiff, wood-carved furniture. “I’ll be in the next room.”

Ashe nods, and they split up. Felix peeks in the other study, a larger but darker room compared to the one across the hall, with walls hidden behind shelves of the king’s books. The desk in here is little more than a simple table sporting a candle and a nub of a pen, surrounded by velvet armchairs for reading. Dimitri hates working in here and has not done so in months, preferring the better light and accessibility of the other study. 

The smell of books and dust is overwhelming without a window or other doorway for ventilation, and Felix coughs a few times. He scours the desk for matches and lights the candle. Though the room is unused, he walks along the shelves and looks for any papers tucked between the books for someone to find later. It’s a long-shot, however, so he soon gives up and wanders to the bedroom, past the adjoining bath with the ridiculous gold-lined tub courtesy of Sylvain. 

Felix has only been in Dimitri’s bedroom a handful of times in recent years. With him spending most of his time in Fraldarius, and Dedue here to keep Dimitri company, there isn’t ever a need for Felix to be in here. Before the war, the rooms belonged to Dimitri’s parents, and Felix was never permitted inside. 

Once, after Dimitri’s coronation, he led Felix here, past the towering bed to the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard three levels below. He looked down at the frenzy of activity that now belonged to him as king, offering Felix the chance to leave and live his life free of the burdens of the kingdom. _I hear Brigid needs swordsmen,_ he said. _They could use your skill, and you could travel, live away from all of this._

Felix almost throttled him that day. Instead, he told him to swallow his hypocrisy and let Felix rebuild the kingdom at his side. If he heard another word against it, Felix would run him through with Loog’s sword. Not long after that, he had the stupid shield bauble made, the one now stuffed unceremoniously in a desk drawer among dust and candle wax. 

He enters the room to see Ashe ahead of him, crouched in front of a leather covered chest at the foot of the bed. A thin piece of metal sticks out from between his teeth while he squints at the lock. “What are you doing?” 

Ashe wedges the lockpick inside and turns it slowly, listening for the click. With a pop, it unlocks and springs the lid open. “Opening this,” he says, standing.

Felix stares, impressed. “Right. Thanks.”

Slowly, Felix kneels and pulls the lid fully open. Inside lay several items of varying sentimental value. He recognizes an old blanket, stitched by Dimitri’s mother, most likely. A few faded toys from years past. An old child-sized helm: the first made for Dimitri, when he was hardly old enough to walk. The fragments of a broken sword—Felix is surprised to see them, he’d have thought one of Dimitri’s tutors would have thrown them out long ago. It was stupid, really, how insistent Dimitri had been on breaking his own sword, after he’d shattered one of Felix’s by mistake, so they would be even. What a waste of a weapon.

Felix laughs slightly, a soft breath through the nose. But it doesn’t last. He’s here for a reason. Felix sets the fragments aside and pores through the rest of the chest. He makes a small noise of anticipation upon finding some folded papers, but they are not what he seeks. And despite digging through this trunk with eagerness, even Felix won’t stoop so low as to read past letters from Dimitri’s father, or from Glenn….He swallows a sudden lump in his throat and frowns. 

There are recent letters, too, unfolded and easily examined, from their friends during the first year of war in the brief months before Dimitri was arrested, and from the past two years as well. Scanning only the names, he sees one from himself from 1181, when he’d written to Dimitri to beg him to come to Fraldarius, complaining about the presence of Gustave (Gilbert as he then called himself)—Goddess, Felix forgot about that one. Had he really written something so pleading?

He shoves it quickly under the stack and tucks the blanket over the whole lot of papers before Ashe can notice what he’s reading. But Ashe is standing with his back to the chest, looking oddly at the mantle above Dimitri’s hearth.

“Felix,” he whispers. “I think I see something.”

Felix follows his eyeline to a small bronze statue of a lion. Small is perhaps incorrect; it’s nearly the size of a house cat, standing on hind legs and roaring proudly. And sticking out from beneath its base is an ivory scrap of paper. 

Before Felix can move, Ashe squats down to the fireplace, prodding a finger among the ashes again. “This looks a lot like it could have been paper,” he says. “He probably hasn’t kept them all, if he’s received as many as you say.”

Felix, now above him at the mantle, struggles with the lion. Dimitri _would_ hide something beneath a heaving hunk of bronze, being the only one with strength to retrieve it. “Help me with this?” he asks.

Together they lift it just enough to where Felix can grasp the corner and slide the pages out. They take a layer of dust with them. He flips them over and quickly confirms the presence of the same silver seal, while Ashe lets the statue fall with a loud _thunk._

“Well?” Ashe asks, catching his breath against the ledge.

Felix barely hears. He stares at the first page, checking first for any signatures without expecting to see any, and he is unsurprised to be correct. The seal itself gives nothing away either; it appears to be interlocking loops ending in a small leaf. No crest or emblem he’s ever seen. The writing itself, in deep purple-black ink, flows in a way similar to that of the looping emblem, legible only at an angle. There is no title or term of address. Just a few lines of what Felix could only bother calling nonsense:

_Snapdragons cover the mountain paths and northbound streams_

_But soon the Wyvern Moon will find me in your sway_

_Betwixt the summer mums and violet blooming seams_

_The painter makes his vibrant home for me to stay_

_His arrows strike the colors true that float away_

A poem? Not a very good one, in Felix’s estimation. What in the name of Saint Indech’s three-horned skull does this even mean? 

Then Felix flushes at a thought. What if these really are love poems, and he’s just intruded on the most awkward secret courtship of all time (at least since the time Manuela stuffed drunken love notes in empty gin bottles and left them in Hanneman’s office)? 

He sniffs at the paper, but there is no trace of fragrance aside from ink and dust. No flowery perfume or lock of hair or other goddess-forsaken symbol of devotion. A blessing, but Felix is unsure it disproves the idea. He sees Ashe raise an eyebrow at him but ignores it.

The second page—for they found only two—has the same scrawl, but no more sense.

_I dare not pretend to reside in your sunniest thoughts_

_But let me lay claim to one star-dusted, flickering sky_

_Wait for the Great Tree days of wind so fraught_

_Let not the white roses be crumbled to dust in your eye_

_For I shall ride in like a storm on the back of a fly_

More heat rushes to Felix’s face. This—these florid lines can’t be anything other than sad attempts at romantic overtures. But something about them is off. Flowers crumbling to dust? And who could possibly claim a fly as a heroic steed? 

Does Dimitri _enjoy_ this type of correspondence? He’s always been sensitive, but Felix has never known him to read poetry. Maybe he prefers an expressive lover? With an inner shudder, Felix thanks all the saints and the Goddess that he doesn’t have to see whatever Dimitri has penned in response. 

It’s a relief when Ashe interrupts his thoughts. “What do they say?” 

Felix hands them over. “Nothing I can make out. Some sappy nonsense.”

“Hmm.” Ashe’s eyes flit down each page, and he purses his lips. 

Sighing, Felix takes a last look at the mantle in case there are other, more useful papers that they hadn’t yet seen, but only the lion remains to mock him. Now that his mortification has subsided, he finds himself angry. “Never mind these. Let’s go. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

But Ashe holds up a hand. “Hang on...Felix, I think these are in code.”

Felix scoffs. “How?”

“Something about this line…” Ashe trails off. “Do you remember the legend of Bragi?”

“Is this another one of your books I’m meant to read?” Felix thinks with a pang of shame of the ever-growing pile of recommendations next to his desk. “I haven’t had the time lately.”

“Bragi was a warrior poet, whose verses foretold the future.” Ashe walks to the window and holds the page aloft in the light there, then looks at Felix. “They say his poetry was so vivid it conjured scenes more vibrant than paintings! They also say he predicted Loog’s victory over the empire.” 

Oh, that Bragi. Felix can’t recall anything else of substance about him. He shrugs. “And?”

“Well,” Ashe says with an expectant and far too excited look, “what if these lines are meant to be symbolic, predicting a future event related to His Majesty?”

It is Felix’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I don’t see how you could glean that from this drivel.”

“Think about it! They mention specific times, like Wyvern and Great Tree Moons, and flowers…” The paper rustles as Ashe pores over it. “Loog was born in Wyvern Moon. And it was in Great Tree Moon that his forces first overtook the red dragon battalion—maybe that’s what the snapdragons here are referencing.”

When Felix says nothing, Ashe continues. “Dimitri being the descendent of Loog is the obvious connection...hmm, I’m not sure what the painter is supposed to represent, or the fly…”

“Let’s say you’re right,” Felix interrupts. “Say these are messages of warning. Who are they supposed to be from?”

For the first time, Ashe falters. “I...I don’t know. A benevolent messenger?”

“But who? Who would have the motive to send prophetic messages to Dimitri, unless they mean to threaten him?”

And why would Dimitri work so hard to hide them? Could there be some faction of former Imperial rebels that they are not aware of? Of course things are still unstable in parts. The Knights of Seiros have been combing the mountain roads for years to track smuggling and underground movements, while Ferdinand von Aegir rebuilds the south. Felix would have heard if some group of ex-imperial lordlings had grown into something more pressing.

No, it doesn’t make any sense. The obvious longing, the flowers ( _white roses,_ he notes, are meant for lovers) can mean only that they are the work of an admirer wishing to make known their feelings but not their identity.

He rubs his left temple, until a sudden noise from outside startles him. Sylvain and Dimitri are supposed to be training, but it’s been a while…

Ashe’s wide eyes meet his, and they both snap to action. With Kyphonian effort, Felix lifts the statue the few inches needed for Ashe to slip the papers back underneath. Ashe sweeps the scattered cinders back into the fire grate while Felix shuts the trunk of memories. Felix hopes that a maid will come through to properly tidy the rooms before Dimitri retires for the night. 

Stifling the gnawing guilt, Felix flees the royal suite with Ashe close behind. They part ways and continue the rest of the day as if they hadn’t just casually invaded the king’s— _Dimitri’s_ —privacy.

Later that evening, while drinking mulled wine in his rooms, Felix will remember that they never re-locked Dimitri’s trunk. 

~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix once again demonstrates decent instincts coupled with horrendous follow-through. He and Dimitri meet someone they do not expect, in the least convenient way possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chap comes the first art piece by [Ama!](https://twitter.com/fenneccake) It's embedded in the appropriate section below, but if you want a preview, [here it is.](https://www.dropbox.com/s/va4szkb7ehct9cg/ama_bigbang%20piece%201.png?dl=0) ;)

Felix cuts short his training the next morning. After dropping his sword twice while going through the forms, he grumpily accepts the truth: his mind can’t focus and his heart isn’t in it. Those stupid notes won’t leave him alone.

He needs to find Dimitri and apologize. How idiotic he was to have made such a fuss about what are clearly private exchanges between Dimitri and…someone dear to him? It is _not_ unusual, he must remind himself, for Dimitri to have acquaintances that Felix does not also know. How many times has Dimitri traveled across the continent to meet with lords and officials in different territories? Well, it was only the one tour, but surely he could have met and befriended some pompous ass who pays addresses through paragraphs of flowery shit?

Scowling, Felix slots the training sword in its place on the shelf, retrieves his cloak from a hook along the walk, and stalks up the courtyard staircase back inside, mulling over other possibilities. Maybe Sylvain has finally made good on his declarations from years ago to introduce Dimitri to more women? 

The thought makes him clench a fist, but he forces a deep breath and lets go. The truth is Felix has never seen Dimitri become truly taken with another person, not even when Byleth agreed to teach the Blue Lions class all those years ago and all the students mooned over her. If this is indeed the case, then Felix will endeavor to be happy for him. 

It is this thought instead that carries him down the halls to Dimitri’s study, where he is often found with a plate of food and mug of coffee set atop the previous night’s papers. But the room is empty, bereft of both breakfast and king.

Felix frowns and turns to the guard across the hall. “Has Dimitri been in to work at all this morning?”

The soldier shakes her head. “No one has entered the study these last three hours, Your Grace.”

“Is he still in his rooms, then?”

“No, my lord. I haven’t seen His Majesty at all.”

Felix steps forward until he’s nearly in her face. “So you’ve lost the king?”

“Not at all,” she replies without flinching. “I believe he is elsewhere in the castle.”

“Hm. I see.”

His cloak swishes as he pivots away and continues walking. Various staff and soldiers pass him as he makes his way to the lower reception hall and through to the dining room. No sign of Dimitri in either place, only a handful of noblewomen who whisper to each other over bread and cheese and pay him no mind. 

This is ridiculous. The summit begins _tomorrow_. Why can’t Dimitri just be where he’s supposed to for one goddessdamned second? In the hallway, Felix runs a hand through his hair a few times until he gives up and re-ties the whole thing. He wonders if it’s too late to push forward his travel plans to Fraldarius by a few days.

Enough time has passed for the morning’s council meeting to begin. Felix pokes his head in the meeting room, where of course the king’s seat is empty. He spots Sylvain near a side table filling a cup with tea, but others are milling about and slowly filing into their seats. He still has a few minutes before the start.

On a whim, Felix abandons the room and jogs the long way around to the stables, hoping that Dimitri’s merely running late from a pleasant morning ride out.

But as soon as he sees the stable manager come rushing toward him with a paper in hand, dread sinks into his stomach. 

“My lord duke, am I glad to see you,” says the man, panting. 

Felix tenses. “What is it?” He immediately scans the row of stalls; the black mane of Dimitri’s favorite stallion is missing.

“The king rode out not half an hour ago, in a great rush. He wouldn’t say where. He only bade me give you this.”

He thrusts a folded paper into Felix’s arm, and Felix takes it with a growing sense of trepidation. The leaf on the silver seal is torn in two where someone has opened it. “He said to give this to me? What else did he say?”

“Nothing, my lord, only that it were to go into your hands and no one else’s.” He lowers his head with a sheepish look. “I regret that I didn’t make it to you sooner—”

“Let us hope you _don’t_ regret it in the end,” says Felix. “Is there anything else?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then get out of my sight.”

The man scurries away and Felix pries open the paper. It’s the same purple ink, with messier strokes:

_By the time this is in your hands, the moment is near._

_Follow the trail to the crooked haven, as agreed._

That’s it? Felix flips it once, twice, triple checking for further lines of info. Nothing. His pulse rises as he tries not to panic. He’ll go after him; Dimitri leaving this letter for him could mean nothing else. 

Felix rushes inside, around to the corner stairwell, and up to his rooms. Instead of his usual blue cape, he grabs a navy travelling cloak, along with two silver swords and a leather knapsack with bronze buckles. He stuffs the letter inside. He wastes a minute debating whether to bring Aegis, decides against it—the weight will slow him down. 

In a frenzy, he sprints up another flight of stairs to the King’s rooms, brushing past the lone guard in the hall, back to the bedroom where the other letters still sit wedged behind the statue on the mantle. 

He tugs them free, ripping a corner of the paper in the process. The purple scrawl remains unchanged. A delirious thought crosses his mind: what if Dimitri is not in danger? What if he is on his way to a romantic rendezvous, and giving Felix this letter was his way of asking not to be interrupted?

Felix shoves the letters in his pack alongside the latest. This can’t be the truth, otherwise why would the stablemaster have been so ill at ease? 

He nearly barrels into Ashe turning a corner. “Felix! What’s the matter?”

“I need you to make my excuses to the council today,” Felix replies, panting. “And Dimitri’s as well. He’s gone missing.”

Ashe tenses in alarm. “What?”

“He left me this letter.” Felix yanks it from his bag and waves it in Ashe’s face. “I’m going after him.”

“But Felix, what does this mean? Where did he—”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m not wasting any time.” He takes back the letter, and the two of them walk briskly down the hall, their boot falls echoing off the stone. 

“Let me come with you at least, I can—”

“No, stay here. In case something happens, or Dimitri returns.” They stop at the intersection between the outer covered hallway and the ground level meeting rooms. Felix looks Ashe briefly in the eye. “Speak the details of this to no one. Frightening the others would be of no help. If you don’t hear from me in two days, put out a search with Sylvain and Ingrid.”

“Felix, wait. Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

Dimitri chose to go alone, fleeing his execution all those years ago. Felix isn’t letting him make that choice this time.

“I have to be. I’m not letting him throw himself in harm’s way again. Not without me there.”

Ashe still looks uncertain, but he nods. “Okay then. Goddess speed you.”

~

The stable master is still there when Felix returns, assisting Felix personally onto the first available horse he finds. The mare, called something ridiculous like Carrot, is one of Ingrid’s. Felix will apologize to her later, but he needs one he can handle that won’t toss him the second they get out of the city. 

His mind spins as he loops his knapsack through the saddle hooks. Where in the saints’ names could Dimitri have gone? _The crooked haven_ … the words mean absolutely nothing to Felix. 

Wait—there is a grove of ruins not quite a day’s ride to the southeast. The trees there have been growing for centuries around crumbling stone. His father sometimes took Glenn and Felix through there as children, on their way between Fhirdiad and Galatea, and told them stories of kings and heroes past. Glenn used to say that wolves prowled the surrounding forest, and he would sneak up behind Felix and howl as loud as anything. 

Those crooked trees are the only thing Felix can think of that might make sense, so he spurs his horse quickly through the streets and out the eastern gate. He nods at the guards there, grateful for the benefit of his rank in that no one questions his comings and goings too closely.

The road outside the city walls is bleak and bare, even in midmorning. Most trade comes in the west gate from the inlet harbor, or the south by road. Few venture out hunting or traveling at this time of year. One good thing does come from the harsh winter weather: snow, and in it, easily marked tracks. If he doesn’t spot any within a half hour, he reasons, this will have been a false lead. He’ll return and regroup.

Fucking hell, this is an outrageous risk he’s taking. Felix can’t possibly confirm that Dimitri went this way, that he went anywhere at all. He should have questioned the stable master more thoroughly before high-tailing it out of the city like some scared child. 

Even so, some part of his instincts must be right; there are fresh hoofprints leading south into the forested valley, spread far enough apart to indicate quite the pace. He tries to remember the path leading to the ruins. It splits off the road after one of the villages, but which one?

Felix follows the tracks for the next three hours, stopping only to water Carrot in a stream as they climb further down. Clouds cover the sky but threaten no snowfall. A stroke of luck, he thinks. He didn’t bring enough supplies to camp overnight, or to suffer a blizzard.

The tracks stay fresh the further he goes, though Felix sees no sign of a rider anywhere. He does see a pair of dogs and three men walking along the road in the same direction he rides. Must be closing in on a village. 

He makes it there around midday. Sun peeks in slits through low-hanging clouds, illuminating a host of other tracks from wagons and animals going in and out of the village, converging in deep ruts. The hoofprints he followed are lost among them.

Frowning, Felix pulls a skin of water from his pack and tugs it open with his teeth, drinking deeply. He scans the main thoroughfare: an inn and stables off to the right, a few trade shops across the road, a handful of people weaving between them on their way. Carrot is panting heavily beneath him. With a sigh, Felix leads her to the inn for some food and rest. He still has a ways to go at speed. This is as good a place to change horses as any.

A stablehand materializes to lead the mare to drink and a stall of fresh hay. His eyes widen at Felix’s coins. Felix hesitates before handing them over. “Have you seen a man on a black horse ride through here?”

The boy shakes his head. “Haven’t seen a soul outside of regular customers,” he says, then at the sight of Felix’s frown adds, “but my old man might have!”

He takes Felix to a balding man seated on a barrel outside the inn’s door. Drunk, by the looks of him. Felix scoffs but asks again, to be certain.

“Did you see a man on a black horse ride through the town this morning?” He eyes the state of the man’s worn boots. Are all the outlying villages still suffering this much from the effects of the war? He’ll need to bring this up to Dimitri, once he finds him.

The man blinks lazily. “Wha…?” 

“I cannot delay. Tell me straight: has no one ridden by?”

A long groan. “Horse? Black…man.” With a hand on his head, the old man stares at Felix as if from underwater. “Yes, I saw….not long now, twenty min— _ohhh_.” His words dissolve into another moan of pain.

Felix glances between the man and the stablehand, foot tapping. _This is a waste of my time,_ he wants to snap. “Uh, thanks,” he says instead.

He turns back to the inn’s entrance. “Have a fresh horse ready in ten minutes. I’ll be on my way then.” 

Bewildered, the stablehand nods. 

~

On the road again, Felix passes through the opposite end of the village with even less confidence than when he arrived. Sure enough, there are several lines of horse tracks continuing along the road, some fresh enough to possibly be Dimitri’s. 

He traces their path for another few hours, while the light sinks behind the hills. It’s slow going. Hawks take flight overhead, stirring snow from branches as they lift off, and their shadows follow them across the treetops. The snow has built up in drifts the higher he climbs. His borrowed horse struggles through the powder and slush, snorting at Felix as he urges her on. He leads her along the tracks of the rider ahead, where the snow is at least packed down slightly, but she’s already getting tired and there’s not much he can do. 

Felix himself nibbles on a hunk of bread he’d taken from the inn at lunch. It staves off the hunger but not the nerves. He aches all over: feet, thighs, tailbone, shoulders, eyes straining in the low light.

He’s been gone the whole day. While he cares little about missed meetings—the council officials can talk their heads off without him just fine—he knows there will be chaos spurred by Dimitri’s absence. (Felix’s, less so.) 

Pulling his cloak tighter, he rounds a bend at the crest of a hill and nearly drops the reins. A wolf licks and gnaws at the carcass of a dead animal—a fox? deer?—with blood dripping from its mouth. Felix’s horse startles violently, rears back with a loud cry, and Felix clings to its neck for dear life. The wolf flees, off the road and into the forest. Felix hears other noises in the same direction; more wolves, perhaps. Is it usual for them to be roaming this deep into winter?

With a thunderous landing, his horse veers in the opposite direction through snow-covered brush and into the trees. Felix ducks under branches, feels snow fall into his hood and on his neck. He shivers and tries to tug the reins back under his control, but it’s too late. They’re completely off the road and into the woods.

Sylvain and Ingrid would chide him, he knows, for being tense and aggravating the horse’s stress, so he goes as limp as he can while gripping the pommel and squeezing his legs to stay upright. Finally, after what feels like several minutes, the horse has calmed enough to walk, with a few last tosses of its mane. 

Felix strokes its hair and whispers soothingly in its ear. He looks around the growing darkness, and his stomach drops. 

He has no idea where the fuck he is. 

Logically, he can just turn around and head in the opposite cardinal direction, looking for crushed leaves and dirty hoofprints and branches snapped at head height to piece his way back. But the woods offer so little light, he can’t even see their tracks behind him. 

So he does the next best thing and listens. Breathes deeply, counts to twenty, listens for the noise of other travelers on the road, anything that might point him towards a return. Because that’s what he needs to do: go home. There’s nothing out here, no one. No Dimitri, no secret messengers, nothing.

Felix is an idiot.

A bitter lump wells in his throat, anger at Dimitri for not simply _telling him_ what the problem is, instead of leaving a cryptic note. Anger at himself for not asking more, for sneaking around and relying on others to hold the fort while he rushed off with Ingrid’s horse. 

A sudden rustle to his right—the horse perks up her ears, swiveling towards the sound. With a nudge, Felix urges her forward and they weave carefully around rocks and old roots, some with bends the size of doorways. He follows their path upward to find even gnarlier, gigantic, crooked trees. 

They hop over a stone wall, barely two feet high and crumbling. With a flicker of hope, he realizes they may have found the ruins after all.

The noise from earlier reveals itself as another horse some distance away, shimmying and shaking its head, pawing the ground as if nervous. A black-clad figure stands at its head, rubbing down its neck to calm it. 

They are too far away to notice Felix; he takes advantage and guides his horse behind the juncture of a tree and a stone wall. He ties her to a branch with a handful of oats and a comforting word and slips quietly toward what structures are still standing, steps slow to minimize the crunch of snow. The forest is quiet, aside from wind that whistles through hollow, crooked trees and the faint whinnies of the other horse. 

The rider, whoever they are, paces along a stone ledge near their mount. Felix draws closer, leaning around the corner of a broken pillar to spy. 

This horse isn’t the black stallion Felix expected; its tan mane is noticeable even in the dim light. Nor does Felix see blond hair or familiar travel armor. The rider stops and sits on the ledge, hunched over, completely covered in a hooded black cloak, black pants and boots. No gear or insignia that Felix can see. 

His heart sinks, straight through panic and into anger. Who has he been following all this time? Did he waste a full day chasing after a wild goose? 

Where is Dimitri? He has to be there already, has to be close. But who could this other rider be—someone Dimitri means to meet? Someone who means to harm him? 

Cautiously, he draws his sword and steps forward.

“You there,” Felix calls. His voice is scratchy from the cold and from disuse. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Whoever it is doesn’t move, stares fixedly at a point on the ground ahead, probably hasn’t even heard him. Felix edges nearer. He’s within shooting distance, if he’d brought a bow. _Or if they did_ , he thinks, but they don’t seem to be wearing any obvious weapons.

The thin crust of ice atop the snow cracks under Felix’s boots. The person still hasn't noticed him. 

Felix raises his sword higher, closing in, crossing his steps into defensive position as he moves directly into their line of sight. “I’m speaking to you,” he calls again. 

With a sharp turn of their head, the figure rises to their feet, whips their cloak to the side as they reach for their hip— 

Felix doesn’t waste a thought. He lunges before they’ve had time to throw back their hood. His sword flicks the general area of their side, tip kissing the cloth of their black coat, blocking any attempts at retrieving whatever weapon they mean to pull. But on the back swing as he tries to force the figure backward, a gloved hand closes around the blade, followed closely by another. They strain under the full weight of Felix’s strike. 

“Wait,” croaks a low, strangled voice from beneath the hood. “Stop!”

Felix sees a shortsword gleaming from the other man’s side now. If he’s smart, there’s likely a dagger in one of his sleeves, or at his belt on the other side. Felix pushes harder against his grip, but it’s too strong. Frustrated, he kicks at the closest knee he can reach. The man falls back a step with an oddly familiar grunt, and Felix uses the momentum to tear his sword away. He grabs one edge of the black cloak and yanks forward, delivering sharp whacks with the blunt of his sword to the other knee and side of his torso, then shoves him away until after a few steps, he trips over a rock and lands squarely on his backside. 

Felix is on him in a second, pressing a knee to his chest. The man pulls a dagger from his other hip, but one quick swipe of Felix’s sword knocks it out of his hand and he falls flat on his back, Felix hovering over him. He grips the man’s wrist in one hand and plants his blade in the ground for balance, pinning the cloak in place. Moves to pull back the hood and sees his opponent’s now exposed face as it droops, framed by long, dirty blond locks of hair. 

Felix squints in the fading light. “Who are you and what—” His eyes widen. “Dimitri?”

Panting, Felix lifts his sword off and leans back. It’s clear, now that they’re inches apart face to face, that the man under him is indeed Dimitri, eyepatch and all. He’s dressed head to toe in black: plain pants and boots, double-layered lace up shirt, and a hooded travelling cloak Felix has never seen before. It makes him look ridiculous, like some kind of trussed-up bandit. No thief has such well-fitting pants, however.

Dimitri spits strands of hair out of his mouth and blinks up at him. “Felix. I...hardly expected to see you.” He grunts as Felix moves off of him to stand. 

“Sorry,” Felix says without thinking, still a bit rattled from his hasty attack. He looks around again, checking if they are alone, if their horses are still close by, if there are any other surprises waiting in ambush. 

After a moment, he sheathes his sword. Felix should have guessed Dimitri would not travel in state, would prefer to remain unnoticed. The more he thinks on it, the more he regrets rushing in on an opponent for no reason. 

He’s too on edge. 

“Where’s your horse?” Felix asks dumbly.

Dimitri, sitting up with a hand massaging his shoulder, looks perplexedly between his idling horse and Felix. “Right there?”

“Your regular horse,” Felix says.

“You mean Caligo. At the castle, why do you ask?”

Felix frowns. “But he was gone this morning…”

“I asked one of the grooms to exercise him in my absence,” Dimitri says, rising to his feet. “Why does this matter?”

“I thought to find you with him, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

They both stand there, Felix fidgeting and looking awkwardly at the ground. Dimitri dusts off his snow-damp pants. Felix feels slightly bad about that, but it is what it is. At least the cloak covered most of him.

Why the hell does Dimitri have a huge black travelling cloak, anyway? How many times has he ventured abroad without anyone knowing? He’s surrounded by staff, tracked by guards, accosted by sycophantic lords and officials—all right, maybe Felix understands the need to escape, but _this?_

“Dimitri,” he says, low and angry. “What are you doing out here? What in Ailell is going on that would cause you to abscond from Fhirdiad two days before your birthday, when all of fucking Fódlan will soon be there to see you?”

Dimitri pauses and sighs, looks at Felix before going back to adjusting his shirt. “This was urgent, I couldn’t wait—”

“What could possibly be so urgent and so important to require your presence in the middle of nowhere?”

“There are some things too dangerous to explain.”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “The letters, you mean.”

“Yes, the letters are a part of it.”

Of course it’s the fucking letters. Gritting his teeth, Felix closes the distance between them. He rises to his full height and drags Dimitri down by a fistful of his outer shirt. Dimitri is either too tired or too resigned to resist. “Tell me what all of this means. Now.”

“Felix, please—”

_Crack_. Someone has stepped on a branch, and it echoes across the clearing. In an instant, Dimitri pulls them both around the corner wall out of sight. He whirls Felix around so his back is pressed flush against Dimitri’s chest, one hand covering Felix’s mouth, leaning against the stone. Felix experiences ten seconds of disorientation as he adjusts to the feel of Dimitri’s whole body against his, with his breath warm and loud in his ear and a gloved hand over half of Felix’s face. He isn’t wearing full armor either, based on what Felix feels through his cloak. Riding at speed into the wilderness, under-armed and unarmored—how could Dimitri be so reckless?

Silently, Dimitri drops his arms but doesn’t move, letting Felix catch his balance in front of him. Felix cranes his neck and opens his mouth to ask who (or what) they’re hiding from, but Dimitri holds a finger to his lips. 

They soon have an answer. Slow footsteps crunch between the crumbling pillars and half-walls, growing closer to their hiding spot. A sniff from Dimitri’s horse, and the footsteps pause. 

Nothing happens for a full minute, all three of them frozen, waiting. Then, a polite cough as the new arrival clears their throat. 

Felix raises a questioning eyebrow at Dimitri, who sets a hand on his shoulder and steps past him, out into the open. Felix follows.

Another black hooded figure idles before them, tall and thin and shabbily dressed. Their thread-worn hood droops over all but a pale, pointed chin. Annoyed, Felix wonders if he’s interrupting some sort of cult meeting.

The person pulls back their hood with one hand to reveal the gaunt face of Hubert von Vestra. He sinks into a low bow. 

“Your Majesty,” he drawls, dripping with mock reverence.

In an instant, Felix has drawn his sword.

Dimitri holds up an arm to block him. “Von Vestra…” he replies. Felix hears his surprise, though it’s guarded. “I thought you were dead.”

Hubert unbends and meets his gaze. “You were mistaken.” 

Dread creeps into Felix’s chest, and he grips the sword tighter. He didn’t know what to expect of Dimitri’s journey out here, but reuniting with the late emperor’s faithful retainer, the one whose methods knew no bounds in fulfilling Edelgard’s bidding, who was responsible for the deaths of more soldiers than Felix could throw at him, was certainly not it. 

“Crawl back to the hole you came from, slime,” he spits.

Hubert looks at Felix for the first time, cool and uninterested, taking in Felix from toe to matted fur collar, before addressing Dimitri. “I was not expecting you to bring one of your war dogs with you. Though I would have thought to see the other one, your vassal.” Then, to Felix: “Unless you’ve taken on that role, too?”

“Shut up.”

Dimitri lowers his arm, though his curious, wary expression does not change. He speaks low, as if in a trance. “Why are you here?”

“For the same reason you are: to share intelligence.”

Dimitri does not answer, remains staring at Hubert in silent concentration. A thought hits Felix like a blow to the stomach: were the letters he found secretly correspondence from _Hubert von Vestra?_ Were those disgustingly trite lines disguising a person even more abhorrent?  
  
Hubert folds and unfolds his hands, eyes never leaving Dimitri’s face. “We have a common enemy. It is in my interest to destroy them.” 

Enemy? “What is he talking about?” Felix asks. 

But Dimitri ignores him. “Why is Lorenz not here?”

“Gloucester is already under suspicion and cannot come and go quite as he pleases.” Hubert’s lip curls into a facsimile of a smile. “Unlike you.”

“Nor you, presumed dead.”

“Precisely.” 

Felix glances between them with increasing confusion but keeps his sword trained on Hubert. “Lorenz? What does he have to do with this?”

Hubert’s smile grows menacing. “So you haven’t told him? Fascinating. You should know, Fraldarius, that your king has been conspiring with the future Count Gloucester to remove the _current_ Count from power.”

“You’re lying.” 

Dimitri has no reason to meddle with the Alliance lords beyond securing their continued cooperation. Von Vestra is trying to get a rise out of him, nothing more. 

“He is not.” 

Felix sees Dimitri’s hard expression ultimately turn to resignation. His shoulders relax. He brushes hair out of his face and strides over to the stone wall a few paces away. “Come, Hubert. If you are truly here on Lorenz’s behalf, I will speak with you.”

Seiros, is he serious? Felix’s jaw drops; his sword, not quite. “And let him attack you with your guard down?”

“If I wanted either of you dead, you would be,” says Hubert, clearly bored. He obligingly takes a seat on a fallen log. As if on cue, Dimitri sits on the wall. 

Felix judges the distance between them: close, but just too far out of reach for one of Dimitri’s lances (if he had remembered to fucking _bring_ one). 

Dimitri looks up at Felix, who still has not moved. “He is not armed, Felix.”

“He’s a warlock! He doesn’t use weapons!”

Hubert sighs. “Would it satisfy your pathetic insecurities to bind my hands?”

Felix frowns deeper, reluctant to admit that it very much would.

“You may do so, if only to keep this meeting as brief as possible.”

A pause.

“I have a bit of rope,” says Dimitri, inclining his head toward his borrowed horse. Hubert smirks.

Bristling, Felix circles around behind Dimitri (so as not to take his eyes off Hubert), uses one hand to dig the rope from the saddlebag, and stalks toward Hubert with more petulance than is warranted. Hubert pushes up his sleeves and holds his hands behind his back with a quiet laugh. Only when Felix knots the rope—tight enough to cut off circulation—does he allow his breath to come out. 

Still, Felix refuses to sit, preferring to supervise this conversation from behind the point of his sword. He resumes a position off to the side. 

Dimitri nods. “Well then. If all are satisfied...” He turns to Hubert. “Tell me. We left you bleeding in Enbarr. How come you to be here, working with Lorenz?”

There is a hardness to his jaw now. An intensity to his eyes that Felix hasn’t seen since the war. Hubert, in contrast, appears composed, undisturbed. Infuriatingly, having his hands tied only straightens his posture. “What I did after the Emperor’s death is none of your business.”

A scowl. “You have made it my business tonight.”

“Hmph.” Hubert tilts his chin. “I may not have been a part of your final showdown, but that does not mean I was inactive. There are other ambitions the Emperor bade me fulfill. As long as I am alive, I will see them through.”

“And so you have come to us,” says Dimitri. “Why?”

The hand that is not bracing his weight on the wall flexes, fingers stretching experimentally. One of Dimitri’s only tells that he is anything but calm.

In the silence that follows, Felix switches his sword to his other hand, the one closer to Hubert.

Finally, Hubert lets the veil drop that was obscuring his emotions, revealing eyes filled with cold fury. “Do not mistake me. I will never forgive you for what you did to Lady Edelgard. But I am willing to combine our resources to take down this enemy, for her. Gloucester and I have the same goals, as, I am told, do you. Your appearance here is proof of that.”

Felix tenses. “Don’t listen to this. He clearly meant to lure you out here. The moment you turn your back he’ll kill you.” 

“He is right, however. We need his assistance. This enemy is too great, too insidious for us alone.” 

_Then he means to blackmail you,_ Felix wants to shout. Von Vestra cannot be here without an ulterior motive, some way to gain ground over the fledgling king. 

Dimitri doesn’t even look at him, still locked in an icy staring contest with Hubert. Fine, then. Felix will have to watch both of their backs, as usual. 

Something Dimitri said registers then. “What enemy?” Felix asks. “The empire is no longer a threat to us.” 

Dimitri does set eyes on him then, as does Hubert. They look back at each other as if in unspoken communication. Felix hates this, hates that he is the one in the dark between Dimitri and the worst of their former classmates. 

“What. Enemy,” he repeats.

“Do you remember Remire?” begins Dimitri. The light is so dim, Felix can no longer make out the lines on his forehead, but he can hear the edge of violence in Dimitri’s voice. “When the Academy librarian showed his true, demonic form? And the girl, Monica, in the sealed forest.”

Remire…

Felix doesn’t want to remember Remire Village. Nightmares had returned with a vengeance that month, after years of suppressing them as best he could by training until exhaustion, of Felix’s first battles, hearing Dimitri’s screams of bloodlust. Except instead of seeing western rebels collapse in sickening heaps, he would see civilians, shouting unnaturally, faces twisting into purplish, veiny masks with soulless eyes. 

And then during the war, Felix lost track of those memories, replacing them with burning imperial battalions, deaths of former classmates...friends…

In Enbarr, they’d seen that same dark magic again, mages cloaked in black lining the palace halls. 

“I thought we killed their kind in the imperial palace,” he says, with a steadily sinking feeling. Why are they bringing this up?

Dimitri grimaces and shakes his head. “They have proved impossible to stamp out. Beasts, hiding underground, infiltrating the ranks of humans like devil weeds. I believe that witch Cornelia was connected with them, as was my so-called uncle.”

“Lord Arundel? You slew him at Derdriu.”

Hubert laughs from behind him. “Fool. You think that was the last of them?”

Felix whips his sword around and points it at Hubert’s throat. “Shut up. You were—the empire allied with them. How do we know you aren’t one of them right now? If they can take on the shape of anyone…”

Hubert has the nerve to roll his eyes at that. “The Agarthans have been around almost as long as the Goddess. They have been slithering in the dark for centuries, having despised the church and the Nabateans more than even Lady Edelgard.”

_Nabateans?_ Felix grinds his teeth. _As in the dragon that destroyed the monastery?_ This conversation is getting completely out of hand. It’s near full dark, and he feels a headache coming on. They need to get out of here while Von Vestra’s still tied up.

“They abhor all of humanity. They are nothing but a blight on this infected nation. Yet Edelgard spilled as much blood as they did, used them for her own gain. She was no better than a demon herself.”

Ah, he forgot about Dimitri for a second. Fucking saints, if all of them get worked up, this will end in trouble.

“Do _not_ speak of her in that way,” Hubert snarls. There’s a spark of energy that peeks out from where his hands are hiding. Felix digs the sword in farther. “You know _nothing_ of the horrors she endured at their hands!”

Dimitri drops his head into his gloves. His voice shakes, trembles in that way Felix has not heard for a long time, teetering on a knife-thin edge. “I know only of the horrors I have seen, and the ones I committed in revenge. Deeds which I know now were orchestrated at the whims of these...Agarthans.”

In a flash of memory, Felix sees the books on Dimitri’s desk, the detailed lines of notes— and suddenly, _horribly_ , Felix understands, and his heart sinks deeper. Dimitri has not moved on. Duscur, Remire, Enbarr....is there nothing Dimitri can do but pursue vengeance?

Silence settles between them. Felix can hear an owl hooting not far off. Wind rustles the trees, and he remembers his horse, too far away to check on behind layers of ruined stone and wood. The one Dimitri brought has begun shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Dimitri makes no move to comfort it.

“Listen to me,” says Hubert with a measure of calm. “I will agree with you on one thing. It was a mistake for Edelgard to ally with the Agarthans, one I have paid for many times over. I must destroy them.”

Felix takes deep, steadying breaths. Steps back a pace, for now. He doesn’t like how the darkness obscures Hubert’s face, blurs his movements. “Where are they now?” he asks.

“Hiding, as ever. Coercing anyone weak enough to subdue. Do you know the real reason Gloucester sent no troops to Derdriu two years ago in their hour of need?”

“So,” says Dimitri, hoarsely. “The count has chosen to align himself with their power.”

Hubert matches his bitterness. “The real count is dead. Replaced. The proposal they mean to bring to you is a sham.”

_Shit._ Felix swallows. He shouldn’t be surprised, based on the trajectory of revelations the past ten minutes have brought. In fact, Felix is more angry at the thought of the work they’ve done the past six moons, wasted on false allies who never intended to honor it. 

And he worries, fears that Dimitri will fall back into his patterns of bloodshed in the name of justice.

“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing in that territory,” Felix says. A small part of him continues nagging: how can they know the count’s death was not Hubert’s doing? 

“My search for information led me to Ordelia and then to Gloucester. Lorenz waited until he was sure of his father’s plans before alerting you. I am merely a messenger.”

“So the letters were from Lorenz,” Felix mutters. He supposes the poetry method makes more sense now, though ultimately flawed in execution. He almost laughs with the fleeting gratitude that they weren’t love poems after all. 

Felix can sense rather than see Hubert looking him over. “Yes.”

Dimitri stands then. A filter of moonlight through intertwining branches gives him the shadow of a horned beast. “I’ve spent a long time searching for the truth about these demons. Even if that truth has to come from one such as you.” 

He towers over Hubert on the low log. 

“Untie him, Felix. We have much to do.”

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linking [Ama's twitter](https://twitter.com/fenneccake) again here because their art is amazing and Ama deserves to be showered with compliments!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unwitting three ~~stooges~~ musketeers try to execute a plan together. It goes about as well as can be expected.  
> Felix still doesn't understand the magnitude of the threat they're under, but he sees what it's doing to Dimitri and that's bad enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence here, though nothing super graphic. Also mild depictions of trauma/PTSD on Dimitri's side.
> 
> Thanks to everyone sticking with this story so far!! I am committed to posting the rest of this before 2020 ends. (It turns out editing action scenes is hard????)

They light a fire. 

Dimitri pulls rations from his pack, and Hubert drinks from a flask within his cloak. Felix initially refuses to move his swordpoint from between Hubert’s ribs, until Dimitri lays a hand on his arm and wedges between them. Sulking, he fetches his horse to bring her closer to their group.

Firelight lengthens the shadows on Hubert’s worn face. It reminds Felix of Dimitri’s when they first reunited at the monastery. Somehow, just as then, he cannot bring himself to sympathize.

The conversation continues, less fraught this time. They learn that Lorenz has suspected for some time now that his “father” has been planning something dangerous for the summit in Fhirdiad, and thus he arranged a secret meeting with Dimitri to determine how they can avoid this danger, choosing to send Hubert of all people as envoy. (Felix wisely refrains from voicing his opinion on the efficacy of this plan.)

According to Hubert, Lorenz has also summoned reinforcements: Prince Khalid of Almyra has sent a ship of Almyran assassins disguised as merchants, which will arrive in the port of Fhirdiad by the day of the festival. 

“Khalid?” asks Felix. 

Hubert glances at him. “You would remember him as Claude von Riegan. The assassins are a last resort, but he is happy to return the favor the Kingdom paid him at Derdriu.”

Dimitri nods, ignoring the hint of malice in Hubert’s tone. “What news of the Count?”

“The convoy rides north as of a few days ago. If my calculations are correct, they should be making camp within a few miles of this place,” he says. 

“I see. What does Lorenz suggest?” 

The original plan posed by Lorenz was to use a double for Dimitri at his birthday ceremony so as not to arouse suspicion and alarm among the guests, while they find a way to eliminate the threat away from the populace. But Dimitri categorically refuses to go along with this. No one is going to recognize anyone else as anything but an impostor, nor would it serve any purpose to remove Dimitri from the scene. 

If anything were to happen to the people while Dimitri escaped harm, he would never forgive himself, Felix knows. It would break him.

The new plan is to ambush the Gloucester party as it nears Fhirdiad, confront the false Count, and ascertain the details of his plans before he can launch javelins or worse at Fhirdiad. Felix does not understand why Hubert is so threatened by these ‘javelins’ — Fhirdiad is fortified enough to sustain some amount of ballista damage, especially with advance warning. He is really beginning to question whether there is anything of merit in Lorenz’s ideas, as well. 

“How many are in the party?” he asks.

“The Count and his retinue make up eighty,” Hubert replies. 

Three against eighty? Felix tuts in disapproval. He supposes they will not _all_ be soldiers, but this is ridiculous.

Dimitri, too, is skeptical. “Where is the camp?” 

Hubert inclines his head toward the treetops, where gray fades into black. “There is a clearing along the road beyond that hill over there, some half-mile hence. It is the likeliest place for it.”

“And if it’s not there?” Dimitri asks.

“Then we can wait along the road for them to appear come morning,” says Hubert.

They agree to search the clearing first. Dimitri excuses himself for relief and wanders a small distance between the trees. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Felix rounds on Hubert. 

“Alright, von Vestra,” he growls. “Tell me why you’re really here.”

His arm is beginning to ache from levelling his sword at Hubert’s throat. 

Hubert regards him with disdain, as if Felix were no more than a troublesome child. “Do not waste your energy. I’m not here to harm your precious king.”

“So you’re here to lick his boots instead,” Felix taunts. “Seeking a new master now that your old one is rotting in flames?”

Felix braces for movement, any kind of retaliation, but Hubert just laughs, a raspy coughing thing as sunken as he is. “Why would he need _me_ to lick his boots, when he has you?”

Against his will, Felix colors. He glances in the direction where Dimitri disappeared and has yet to return. “Shut up. You’re worthless. Pathetic.”

“Tough words from one who let his king slip out of the city without knowing the reason why.”

Hubert’s grin is a vile, sallow thing. A carving in a dummy. But his eyes are sharp. Felix wants to sock him in the face, break that fragile nose, and then sink a fist into his stomach for good measure. This whole situation is a nightmare, but he is still glad he came, if only so that Dimitri is never alone with Hubert. 

How can he believe that Hubert is not deliberately spurring Dimitri on a foolish quest that will run him off the throne and into madness?

Felix stretches, gets his face as close to Hubert’s as he can, letting the tip of his sword make up the rest of the distance. “If you touch him, you die.” 

It need not even be Felix who does it. Dimitri is more than capable of tearing a man to pieces.

Hubert looks down the blade with cold eyes. “I don’t care if you trust me or not. I don’t need you at all. If you can manage to stay out of my way,” he sneers, “then we can get along just fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you will. I will follow the plan with or without your assistance.” 

Felix hears the cracking of approaching footsteps. Snarling, he pulls away and sheaths his sword before Dimitri reaches the firelight.

~

After a few minutes of dismantling their sparse camp, they trek south through the woods, following the winter dove constellation as a guide. It is too dark to ride off the road, and too dangerous to warp closer without risking their cover. Hubert, the only one without a horse, leads the way, while Felix brings up the rear, at his own insistence. 

Felix crunches through the snow and dead leaves with deliberate heaviness. With the horses, it’s next to impossible to silence their steps. And he wants Hubert to be aware of him at all times.

Dimitri trods next to him, leading his horse. He hunches under branches, snaps them in two when they don’t give at his push. The black cloak is a shadow over him. Felix wishes he would leave it off, but the cold is too biting.

The third time Dimitri catches him looking, he speaks. “You are hovering. Do I have something on my face?”

Felix frowns at the humorless tone. “Why are you doing this?” he whispers with a glance in Hubert’s direction. “You know what he is.”

“And you know what I am,” says Dimitri. “It is too late to go back now. I must know who we are up against.”

When they reach the bottom of a hill, Hubert stops them, making his way to the top alone. He returns looking satisfied. 

“There is smoke not far off,” he says quietly. “Tie off the horses here. We’re close.”

They secure the horses to a memorable pair of trees. Felix checks his weapons and tightens his gloves. He sees the glint of Dimitri’s shortsword from the corner of his eye. 

He wishes both of them had worn more armor.

Ideally, they will not need to fight at all. If they can find the Count’s tent, they should be able to slip past the patrol and transport the Count away before anyone finds them out.

Felix has slim hopes that this will work. Dimitri has never made stealth a priority in battle. 

“This way,” whispers Hubert. 

He waves them along a line of trees. The road has reappeared below them. Felix can hear the camp now: chattering voices, the odd whinny of a horse, the metal clang of armored footsteps. 

He retracts his earlier thought. There is _no way_ they will be able to sneak through this. Everyone is still awake. 

Hubert nods and angles toward the edge of camp away from the road, where the fires are lowest. There are several wagons clustered in a semi-circle round the back, with banners bearing the dark rose of the Gloucester crest, and they make their way there, keeping a sizable perimeter through the trees. 

From here, they cannot easily see the center of camp, where the lord no doubt sleeps. Felix is about to press forward, to crouch between the wheels and peek through for a better view, when Dimitri forestalls him. “Wait.”

Someone is walking towards them, a guard on patrol no doubt. The three of them flatten against trees. Dimitri cranes his neck around to peek, far enough for Felix to get nervous.

The firelight is too distant to reach them, so perhaps the guard will walk on…

Until Dimitri steps out without warning. 

“What are you doing?” Felix hisses, trying and failing to grab his arm. But he’s out in front of the trees now, in full view.

The guard turns, spots Dimitri, and reaches a hand behind their back where a bow is waiting.

“Ignatz?” Dimitri whispers. “It is you, isn’t it?”

The guard looks uneasily over their shoulder back to camp, but they lower their hand. “W-who’s there?” a voice calls.

Felix abandons his pretence of hiding and stalks out after Dimitri. The guard steps back at his approach, looking poised to shout or run. 

“Friends,” Dimitri answers. He holds his palms out in supplication.

As they draw near, Felix can see the young man more clearly—dark felt cloak with a feather embellishing the pocket, close-cropped hair and round glasses. Felix almost doesn’t recognize their mousy former classmate. But Ignatz, if it is indeed him, opens his eyes wide at Dimitri when he drops his hood. 

“Your—” he cuts himself off with a hand to his mouth, beginning again more quietly, “Your Majesty, it can’t be.” He glances with less certainty at Felix. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing to worry you. We wish to speak to the Count.” 

“The Count?” he repeats. “He is resting now, but I’m sure something can be arranged in the morning.”

Felix scowls. He doesn’t like this. How many classmates are they destined to reunite with in one night? The more people who know of Dimitri’s whereabouts, the less likely they will leave unscathed.

“This matter cannot wait until morning,” says a third voice.

Ignatz spots Hubert in that moment, a shadow lurking beneath shadows. But unlike Felix, he seems to understand something then.

“Hubert,” he greets with more confidence. “Then you’ve come…?”

Hubert nods, holds a finger to his lips.

Felix notices something then, a peculiar shape in Ignatz’s cloak clasp. It resembles a painter’s palette. The words come back to him then, about the painter whose arrows strike true. But how did Dimitri recognize him so quickly?

“Can we trust you to distract the count’s soldiers?” Dimitri asks, low and guarded.

Ignatz pauses to consider. He keeps looking between each of them as if hoping for more of an explanation. “The guard rotation doesn’t change for hours, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“And Lorenz?”

“Not here,” he says. “You’ll find what you’re looking for in the center of the camp. Stay on the outside of the fires and you should pass unnoticed.”

“Understood,” says Dimitri. “You have our thanks.”

With that, Ignatz bows his head and continues the path of his patrol. The three of them don their hoods again and follow at a distance.

“Ignatz?” Felix whispers toward Dimitri’s ear. “How…?” 

“I knew who to watch for.”

Felix frowns but does not answer. They soon come around the bend of the wagons and into the edge of the campfire light. 

There are three fires, from what Felix can see, each with a cluster of soldiers or civilians around it. Others mill in and out of their tents, still more rest on the back steps of wagons. The tents are tall enough to block out the full layout of camp, but a purple flag in the middle signals what must be their target. 

A pair of dark-robed mages walks past them, also wearing hoods. Hubert falls quickly into step behind them, and Dimitri and Felix follow suit. Felix relaxes his gait, tries surreptitiously to examine their surroundings without drawing attention. Dimitri, on the other hand, walks stiffly, his hands clenched at his sides. The picture of unease.

This doesn’t seem to matter to Hubert. He stops, bends to just between their ear level. “We’ll be less conspicuous apart. I’ll meet you there.” 

Without waiting for their answer, he ducks quietly between tents and disappears. Felix glowers at his retreating form. So much for his help.

At that moment one of the mages turns around, revealing a black beaked mask. Dimitri freezes. Felix nearly bumps into him, opens his mouth to scold Dimitri when he, too, sees the mask. 

“You there,” the mage says, peering at Dimitri. The mask garbles their voice. “You’re not supposed to be he—” 

Before they can finish the sentence, Dimitri has his short sword lodged in the mage’s stomach. He rips the mask off with his other hand and tosses it to the ground, drives his sword in deeper, watching their face slowly drain of color as blood flows from the wound. 

“Cowards,” he spits. “Hiding behind your devil masks.”

Felix has no time to panic: the other mage shouts and lifts her hands to attack, and he meets her with his sword raised, cuts her off with a slash to the stomach and a two handed strike through the heart as her unfocused electric tendrils of magic zap the ground between his feet. She crumples to the dirt, and Felix pulls his sword free. He immediately whirls on Dimitri.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Felix whispers, shrill and incensed, for the second time that night. 

Dimitri stands, still hooded. Breathing heavily. His sword slides out of the first mage, who lands in a heap next to their comrade. Felix stares in horror as Dimitri sheathes the sword without cleaning it.

“Come on.” Felix drags him by the arm away from the scene and behind the closest tent. They are still on the edge of camp, but the noise was more than enough to attract company. They’ll have to leave the bodies where they are.

His blood is pounding in his ears. They have to get out of here. Now.

Once they’re hidden in the tent’s shadow, he pulls Dimitri down by the collar of his hood. That Dimitri allows it without a flinch does not put him at ease.

“What the fuck was that?” he asks. 

Dimitri’s eye is filled with a mixture of fear and rage. He looks at Felix, then down at his own hands held out in front of him. They are trembling. 

“They are the ones…” Dimitri begins. “I must...they will destroy everything if I do not…”

“You’ll ruin the mission if you cannot control yourself,” says Felix, panic rising. “Stay focused.”

He slides his hands down Dimitri’s arms, willing him to grow calm. 

“I...you are right,” Dimitri sighs. “I will be...calm. Do not fear for me.”

He can’t meet Felix’s eyes for more than a moment. Felix bites his lip, lowering his hands. 

Voices, growing nearer, and heavily armored footsteps—Felix doesn’t bother checking how many guards have come. They won’t be able to face any number of armored soldiers without their fight alerting more people.

One of the soldiers directs the others to spread out and find the culprits. Felix’s pulse jumps. They need to act fast.

With a finger to his lips, he uses the other hand to gesture at the woods, trying to indicate his plan to Dimitri. They’ll have better luck facing any guards on outer patrol, and then hiding on safer ground until Dimitri...until they can regroup and form a better plan.

Suddenly the _whoosh_ of magic and the boom of a large crash startle him. Felix and Dimitri both peer around the far edge of the tent. One of the carts near where they entered camp has erupted into flames. Several people scream. 

The guards who had come to investigate abandon the dead bodies and run hastily towards the explosion. Once he’s sure they’ve left, Felix lets out a breath. He looks to Dimitri, but Dimitri is now staring at the flag in the center of camp, his hand flexing just over the hilt of his sword.

“This way,” Felix says. He grabs Dimitri by the shoulder, but Dimitri doesn’t move.

Something catches in his peripheral vision, and Felix turns around again. A black-hooded figure rounds the corner in front of them; Felix’s hand reaches for his weapon before he recognizes Hubert.

“Move,” Hubert says, insistent. “We have only moments before the whole camp is mobilized.” 

His cloak flutters behind him as he walks with long strides between the two nearest tents.   
Without a word, Dimitri pulls his hood down and stalks after him. 

Felix’s eyes widen, and he stumbles forward to keep up. “Are you mad? We need to leave.”

“Then leave if you must.”

“No,” says Dimitri. “We are not leaving. This is our best chance.”

Felix’s mouth thins. Once again, he’s left with no choice. He’d rather die than leave Dimitri in Hubert’s hands.

They weave between the campsites, dodging looks from people poking their heads out of tents or around corners. He sees a dark green cloak that could be Ignatz, ushering some frightened youths away from the flames. Most of the bystanders are preoccupied enough to let them pass without noticing. The fire, which Felix now realizes was Hubert’s doing, has spread to the wagons on either side of the first. A handful of soldiers run back and forth, gathering bucketfuls of snow to toss while others rely on magic to lower the flames. Columns of smoke billow upward from the wreckage.

“If you must hit anyone, target the mages,” Hubert whispers sharply. “Leave the others.”

_If they must_. This is supposed to be an extraction mission. Get in, grab the Count, and go. Felix scowls at Hubert’s back. What right does he have to order them about? However much they may need the reminding. Felix doesn’t like the way Dimitri’s hands twitch when they pass close to anyone, nor the way his shoulders hunch. Like he’s on the run again. 

It takes much less time than he imagines for them to come upon the Count’s tent, a purple monstrosity of a thing with gold fringe and the rose-adorned crested emblem of Gloucester embroidered into each side. The clearing boasts enough space to provide the Count a perimeter around himself, with two more dark-robed mages posted at opposite corners outside the tent’s entrance.

Hubert reveals the hilt of a dagger in his sleeve and gestures in a circle toward the back of the tent. Then he looks quickly and meaningfully at the guards. “Take them out. I’ll cut open an entrance from the back and should have him taken care of when you make it inside.” 

Felix frowns. What exactly does he mean by _taken care of?_ But Dimitri nods his understanding, and they watch Hubert slink away with surprising speed.

Two mages for two warriors. A simple dispatch, in theory. Less simple now that the camp is half confused chatter and half chaos. With a grunt, Dimitri heads for the nearest corner of the tent, using the canvas wall as scant cover on his approach. This leaves Felix to double back and approach the other guard from the far corner, draw them away from the entrance—and Dimitri—as much as possible.

He ducks behind the nearest tent outside the Count’s perimeter. Waits a moment, and crosses past the entrance, shielded by two more tents. 

Unlike Hubert, Felix does not like stabbing people in the back. He prefers to look people in the face when they die, that they may see their own fate come to pass. If this means he has to take a roundabout way to draw out his foe, so be it.

He regrets this not thirty seconds later, when he hears a shout and a responding cry of rage that can only be Dimitri. 

Felix leaps over a low bench and sprints in the direction of the noise, bumping shoulders with a startled passerby. 

Dimitri has engaged both mages in combat by the time Felix arrives. Purple and red blasts of magic fly with deadly precision, yet somehow Dimitri lunges out of the way, edging closer, the glint of his sword barely noticeable through the growing haze of smoke. Both that and Dimitri’s hood must be extending his blind spots significantly, Felix thinks with some despair. 

The smoke stings Felix’s eyes and nose. He spits, wipes his face on a sleeve, pulls out his sword. A high grunt of pain rings out as another blast flies past Dimitri and pulverizes the ground at Felix’s feet. He darts around it only to land inches from another blast, shielding his face with his arms to block the debris.

One of the enemies shouts for help, which dissolves into a wail as Dimitri’s sword slices across his chest. His partner is already casting again; Felix tries to yell but the spell grazes Dimitri’s shoulder. Dimitri cries out and doubles over.

The far mage soon falls with Felix’s sword through their abdomen, hands still clasped. There are shouts from inside the tent, and one of the bottom corners has caught fire. Felix will have to deal with that later.

The other mage lifts an arm to cast, but Dimitri catches the hand in his own free one, panting from exertion. He stabs the sword through dark robes into their side. They tussle as the mage tries to speak again, garbled words into cries of struggle, his mask askew and then falling as Dimitri slams his shoulder into the other man. Howling, Dimitri flings a punch so hard into the mage’s face, Felix can hear the crack of broken bones almost as loud as the body landing in the snow.

A flash of blinding blue light and the unmistakable afterimage of the Blaiddyd crest linger in his vision. Bile rises in Felix’s throat.

Holy fuck. _Holy fuck,_ they need to get out of here. 

The crest...if anyone saw it, they could be recognized. And if word gets out that the King of Fódlan is trying to attack Count Gloucester, the news will spread like wildfire and ruin the already stunted relations with the former Alliance territories. 

He kicks snow at the flames licking the Count’s tent to no avail. The discarded mask nearly trips him. Felix picks it up without thinking. 

Thanks to the work of the mages and the earlier fire, a large chunk of the camp is soon up in flames. The screams have grown louder, more intense, urgent voices moving in multiple directions. Three more guards run toward them, weapons raised. 

“That way!” Felix yells hoarsely, unsure which direction he flings his arm. He coughs into the mask. “They went that way, hurry!”

By some miracle of illusion, the guards pivot and sprint away. Felix stares dumbly after them for a moment.

Then he tosses the mask and turns to Dimitri, whose eye gleams wildly in the flickering light. He stands frozen but for heavy breaths, like a cornered animal. 

As if woken from a trance, Dimitri drops his sword with a thud. He latches onto Felix’s face, grips it tight between both gloved hands, muttering uncontrollably. “No. Not you, too. Do not leave me—no, Felix!”

Felix clamps a hand over Dimitri’s mouth. He glances around in terror, but no one is paying enough attention to hear them. 

“Quiet!” The harshness of tone betrays his desperation. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.” 

He repeats himself in a daze, drops his hand to rub intently over Dimitri’s good shoulder. Dimitri’s hands leave his face to cradle his head, and he moans in pain. 

“I’m here,” Felix says again. Goddess, he doesn’t know how to do this. “And we are leaving. _Now._ ” 

There’s a scuffle from behind as someone tumbles out of the tent flaps: Hubert, pale face looking like death warmed over. Upon seeing them, he lunges forward with his arm outstretched.

“Hurry, grasp my arm!” he shouts, and Felix has never been quicker to obey someone he purportedly despises. He forces Dimitri’s hand around Hubert’s wrist and latches his other hand below Hubert’s elbow.

Hubert mutters something that Felix doesn’t catch. Instead, Felix watches with fear-driven curiosity as another set of feet steps through the tent. 

He keeps his head down so the false Count won’t see his face as the three of them dissolve into eerie purple light.

~

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After barely making it out of the burning campsite alive, Hubert bails and Felix must high-tail it back to Fhirdiad with an injured king. He trades his weapons for words and confronts Dimitri about what happened. But Felix has never been very good with words. And they still have to make it back home in one piece.
> 
> Featuring your fave classic tropes such as "there's only one horse" and "there's not even one tent so we have to huddle for warmth" in addition to Felix's typical "can only express feelings by fighting" modus operandi.

They land in a jumble of limbs, somehow still standing, near the pair of trees where they left their mounts. One of the horses—Felix’s borrowed one—spooks at their arrival, whinnying and shuffling her feet. 

Hubert immediately stumbles away and recovers himself. Felix’s hands are a vise around Dimitri’s arm. He doesn’t know which of them is the one trembling. 

“Why did you not take the Count?” asks Dimitri, low and angry. 

Hubert barely glances up. “He was more dangerous than I expected. It was barely enough for me to flee in one piece.”

“Shut up,” Felix says to both of them. Do neither of them care that Dimitri is injured, and perhaps a whole camp of Alliance soldiers may now be on their trail?

Dimitri stirs against Felix’s grip, and Felix tightens his hold on reflex. “I must go back. I cannot let him get away with whatever he plans.”

“It’s too late for that,” says Hubert, fiddling with his cloak. “You’ll have to face him when he arrives in the capital. No one must suspect that we were here tonight.”

“It’s a little late for _that_ ,” Felix mutters.

After a moment, his breaths have slowed somewhat, and Dimitri stills enough for Felix to let go. It is then Felix sees where the spell has torn through Dimitri’s cloak and shirt across much of his left side. He brushes a gloved finger over the hole at his shoulder to gauge the damage. Dimitri flinches from his touch.

“Stay still,” he says quietly. “We need to treat this now.”

Dimitri’s eye is glazed; his mind must be far away again. Felix hurries.

He steps quickly to his horse and flings the flap of his pack open. Vulnerary, vulnerary, no potions, not even any gauze—saints, did he bring anything at all to help against injury? 

With one strong tug, the horse retaliates and yanks him forward, so Felix unbuckles the whole thing from the saddle and lets it fall to the ground, crouching to search further. 

Hubert speaks from behind him. “Your best chance will be to administer this potion, ideally in as public a manner as possible.”

Felix stands, moves in front of Dimitri. “We don’t need your help. We need to get moving.”

He’s close enough to the tether of his horse—still antsy, not that he blames her with Hubert nearby—so he pulls out a dagger and slices clean through the leather below the knot, without taking eyes off Hubert.

This costs him dear attention on the line itself: without his grip on the tether, the horse shimmies out of his range and bolts for the road. Dimitri’s horse answers this with an anxious swish of her tail and impatient look towards the three of them.

Shit. But there’s not much Felix can do now. The horse carries nothing connected to him or Dimitri, though if they don’t get moving soon, it may give their position away. 

Hubert steps forward again, a hand in his pocket. “Time is running out. This will help you. It will transform the Count into his true form.”

“Stay back,” Felix grits out. 

He sees Dimitri raise his head out of the corner of his eye. “Will it do what you promise?” 

“Yes. I’d planned to use it tonight.”

He holds out a large vial of clear liquid, pulled from the hidden depths of his robe. Felix recoils from his hand as he would a venomous snake. Hubert rolls his eyes. 

“Just take it.” He shoves it into the crook of Felix’s crossed arms. “If it works, you’ll never have to see me again.”

“You’re not coming to finish the job?” Felix asks.

Hubert answers with a sneer. “I’m afraid I won’t be well received at court.”

Before Felix can open his mouth or step forward, he feels Dimitri’s hand on his arm, turns to see Dimitri’s gaze locked on Hubert.

“Thank you,” Dimitri says, unsmiling. “Now leave us.”

With a nod, Hubert disappears in another haze of static and smoke. 

Felix blinks as it dissipates. Quiet descends on their diminishing group, enough so that Felix can hear sounds of commotion from the distant camp. The sequence of the day’s events flashes through his mind and strikes him dumb, briefly. How did he start the morning believing the scrawled notes to Dimitri were mere trifles?

There’s a slight thump, and Felix turns to see Dimitri slumped against his horse, his hands grappling unsuccessfully with the fastenings of his pack. It jostles Felix back to the present moment. 

Together, they are able to untie and calm Dimitri’s horse while Felix repacks his spilled things, including Hubert’s illicit bottle. He finally finds an old vulnerary stuffed near the bottom; the liquid has begun to coagulate, but he can’t afford to be picky. 

“Drink this,” he orders. Dimitri does so with dull movements. “Can you ride?”

A nod. “Yes. Yes… I must ride back and face them, I can’t—” he stops to clutch his head and then his side, hissing in pain.

“You will do no such thing,” Felix says, trying not to let his voice shake. “We’re going home.” 

Felix, running on pure adrenaline, has to hoist Dimitri most of the way up the horse, before scrambling on in front of him and taking the reins. He loops Dimitri’s arms around his waist. “Hold on to me,” he instructs. “If you fall off this horse, I swear to Sothis...”

Luckily the horse seems more competent than either of its riders. As soon as Felix’s feet are fully through the stirrups, she takes off through the trees over their roughshod path from before. They bounce heavily on her back. 

In a few minutes they reach the road. Felix urges her into a gallop, tired as she is. He’d feel more sorry, but they need to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Gloucester camp while it is still dark. 

Dimitri cinches his arms tighter around Felix, putting more weight on him, and Felix shifts to accommodate. He always forgets how broad Dimitri is. Were it any other situation, Felix would almost be glad to support his frame.

“You idiot. You absolute imbecile,” Felix says, uncaring that Dimitri probably can’t hear him very well over the sound of hoofbeats. He is livid.

How could Dimitri do this? How could he be so unprepared for a fight in this way? The war is not so far in the past as to merit this complete lack of thought.

“Why did you agree to conspire with fucking _von Vestra_ at the drop of a hat?” he yells. “Did you not stop to think for one second about how bad of an idea that could be?”

“You...agreed, too,” Dimitri’s voice scratches in his ear. 

“Only because you gave me no choice.” 

Felix chances a look over his shoulder and swallows his next words. He just has to pray this horse can carry them as far as the city gates as quickly as possible.

They ride until the horse loses steam and his own eyes start to crust over from both cold and exhaustion. Felix has completely lost track of the distance. They could be hours from the city yet. But the fact remains, none of them will make it without some rest.

He pulls them off the road far enough so they won’t be seen. Rationally, the Gloucester party will not have pursued them, will have stayed behind to protect themselves and tend the injured—a shiver of guilt runs through him—but he cannot be too careful. 

So Felix prepares their camp, makeshift as it must be. They have no tent, not even a spare cloth for shelter, but he can at least make a fire. It will expose them somewhat, but they’ll freeze without it.

Dimitri slides off the horse and almost to his knees. The paleness of his face makes Felix’s throat tighten.

“Sit down. You need healing,” Felix says. 

“I’m fine.” Dimitri swats away Felix’s hand, but he does sit against one of the larger trees in the vicinity. 

Felix scoffs. He loops the reins of their mare into a knot around a sturdy tree branch and strokes her mane in a regrettably poor attempt to be gentle. 

When he looks back, Dimitri is shaking. Felix flings items out of both of their packs until he finds another vial of the pearled liquid. Clutching Dimitri’s chin in one hand, he forces the drink down Dimitri’s throat. 

Dimitri coughs; it’s not enough. Felix tamps down his fear and racks his brain for the healing spells he hasn’t used in years.

“You fool,” Felix says, low. He wiggles his hand through the ripped sleeve to Dimitri’s shoulder. “I thought you were done running headlong into battle with no thought for yourself. You’re lucky I was here to save your skin.” 

A small glow blurs his vision as the healing magic takes effect. Dimitri grimaces at his touch, but the trembling slows until he is breathing at a much less alarming pace. 

“Yes, thank you, Felix. You are always so helpful,” he says, the sarcasm evident even with his hoarse tone.

Felix leans back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You searched my things and opened...private correspondence.” He coughs again. “I trusted you with the information of my whereabouts. I did not...ask you to follow me.”

Felix almost laughs. What is he talking about? Felix’s whole purpose has always been to follow Dimitri. First as a lordling after his prince, then on the battlefield after a brutish boar, now as a man struggling to fuse pieces of himself together, watching Dimitri try to fill the cracks of a tragic life with burdens of responsibility and revenge. Letting Dimitri tear himself apart would be worse than falling beside him in battle, worse than any death.

The reality is the same: where Dimitri goes, Felix follows. 

“You were meant to stay at the castle and hold things steady in my absence,” says Dimitri. 

“I’m your goddessdamned _shield_ , I’m meant to protect _you_.” Felix wants to shake him by the shoulders. “Did you think I would do nothing knowing you were out here alone?” 

“I thought you didn’t care for your shield.” Dimitri says. ‘ _Your duty’_ echoes unspoken between them.

“Don’t change the subject.” 

Felix stands, taking the empty vulnerary bottle. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What matters is that Dimitri stays safe, that he doesn’t let anything pull him down into the abyss of his inner torment.

“You should have told me, or Dedue, or anyone. You always do this, always hoard your burdens to yourself. You’ll get lost in your head again and lead us to another war.” 

He knows as soon as he’s said it that he’s crossed a line. 

Dimitri’s jaw tightens. “You are spoiling for a fight. I will not give it to you.”

“You’re angry enough.”

“Of course I’m angry. You broke my trust.” 

“You lied to me, when I asked. You said it was nothing.”

Dimitri sighs. “I had nothing to confirm at the time.”

It is...difficult for Felix not to get heated at this, but he holds his temper. “And how am I supposed to operate under such assumptions? I can’t sit back and wait for you to learn everything on your own.” 

“What could I share except suspicions that would do naught but burden you with more troubles related to the past? A past which you have...so honorably...tried to move on from,” Dimitri’s voice breaks, “while I find that each of my steps forward is pulled back twice as far by the chains of failure.”

Suddenly, Felix can’t look at him without the sting of tears pricking at his eyes. He speaks through gritted teeth: “Do you not imagine that chains are more easily broken by two than by one? That I might be...that I might not behave as I…” 

He stares into the feeble fire, thoughts trailing into silence. 

“I might have listened, you know. Back then.” The words sound about as defiant as a whimper.

Dimitri closes eyes briefly against a flare of pain. “You know that I have never been...forthright about the things that torment me. Was it not enough for me to grieve in silence among the vultures that circled the empty throne? Would you have preferred I write to you and tell you what the voices said? These are not schoolboy confessions, Felix.”

The words punch the breath from Felix’s lungs, cold and hard. Felix watches, scared at the despair in that solitary eye and the defeat in his limp form. 

“For Sothis’s sake,” Felix says. “I only asked you to let the dead remain dead, not to revisit every ghost you’ve ever encountered.”

Dimitri’s eye narrows. “I do not understand you sometimes. You want me to grin and bear it, but you do not like it when I do.”

Felix thinks of the rage on Dimitri’s face, the howl of desperation that ripped itself from his throat when confronting the mages not hours ago...these are not the behaviors of one who fights with a balanced mind.

_Deep breaths_ , Felix tries telling himself. He clenches a fist. “That is no permission to act reckless. You are the _king._ You cannot run off and abandon your people—” 

“I am defending them—” 

“You’re acting like a damned boar!”

He stops, closes his mouth. 

Dimitri laughs, a sound so startlingly genuine it gives Felix whiplash. “Say it again, why don’t you? You have not called me such in ages.” 

Embarrassed, Felix stalks away, though he doesn’t get very far. He turns his steps towards the horse, tightening its tether as an excuse.

“Forgive me,” says Dimitri from behind him. “But you must allow me to follow this through. We have the chance to prevent more tragedy, to protect those we love from further harm.”

Felix says nothing. There is nothing he can say to convince Dimitri that his approach to justice is misguided, will lead him to his death.

“I am a fool, as you’ve said, but I would be a bigger fool to do nothing. No stone can be left unturned. I will not allow history to repeat itself.” 

He kicks at a pile of snow. Dimitri’s words are...he always speaks so passionately, so seriously about the things he wishes to change. It is not a mask he dons to hide a beastlier nature from others, like Felix once thought, but a banner he hangs as a makeshift light in the darkness. One that Felix wishes so badly to follow without reservation.

Change means hope. Means life. But Felix will never let such change happen at the expense of Dimitri himself. 

He thought that when they won the war, things could be different. Dimitri would not follow the ways of the past, the kingdom would not rely on glory and valor to drive its people onward. Knights would not be forced to die to prove their worth.

Old habits are hard to kill. Just look at Sylvain, grasping at any excuse not to return to Gautier. Dedue, resolutely attached to Dimitri’s side. Mercedes, buried in her prayers and good works to avoid her own healing. Annette, trying desperately to reconcile her parents instead of living her own dreams.

Why else does he, Felix, train as if they were still at war? 

Dimitri leans back and winces in pain again. Felix bites his lip, but he can do nothing more for the injury for now. Dimitri will have to bear it until they return and he can see some proper healers.

“Don’t move,” he commands. “Lie back and rest. I’ll keep watch.”

Dimitri bows his head. “If you insist.”

With slow, awkward movements, he adjusts his position, stretching his legs out and tugging on his cloak and hood. He lets his head fall back against the trunk of the tree, gazing absently at the sky.

Felix knows Dimitri will lie awake, sifting through his thoughts until morning comes or sleep finally pulls him under. Felix’s own thoughts circle relentlessly. He spurs them on, wanting to keep from dozing. He’s so tired he could sleep standing up.

Once he’s determined the horse is secure and his weapons are at hand, Felix shuffles back to sit against a different tree nearby. Dimitri remains still, as instructed. Felix follows his gaze upward to the stars. The clouds have cleared enough to reveal them, and to let moonlight dust the snow, its glow overpowering the embers of their meager fire. 

Minutes pass. Felix shifts his weight, props up one leg and loops an arm around it. The biting cold seeps in where he touches the frozen ground. He almost misses the wind from earlier. Anything to break the heavy silence pressing in.

“Dimitri,” he whispers. 

He doesn’t expect a response, and doesn’t receive one. Dimitri is still awake, still staring resolutely at the sky, waiting for it to swallow him whole.

“I’m...sorry. I shouldn’t have read the notes. I should have asked to help you.”

Dimitri hums. In assent or in question, Felix can’t tell.

“But I’m not sorry for coming after you.”

There’s a shift as Dimitri brings an arm up and rests it under his head. “I would not expect you to be.”

It’s as good a sign of truce as any. Felix pulls at his sleeve absent-mindedly. “I...have another question.”

“Oh?”

“The letters. How did you understand those lines?”

Dimitri exhales a quiet laugh. “It took me some time. Lorenz used quite the mix of ciphers. Moons representing numbers, flowers with certain meanings, things like that. Dedue lent me a book on floriography.”

Felix wonders if Dedue knew what the book would be used for, but decides against bringing it up. Think what he will of Dedue’s overprotectiveness, Dedue would certainly not have let Dimitri run out of the castle as he had. 

“Seems more effort than is reasonable, in my view,” says Felix, frowning.

“You are not the one at the mercy of a shapeshifter who claims to be your father.”

Felix scoffs. What’s the point in secrecy if you have a warping messenger to ensure your correspondence reaches its target? 

He keeps watch for a while, shivering under his inadequate cloak. The moon crawls toward the horizon, chased by clouds. The forest is too dense to see that far, but Felix knows the opposite horizon will fade into pink soon. 

He blinks heavily. Maybe he can sneak an hour of rest. Nothing save their own thoughts threatens them here. If the cold doesn’t take them first.

“Felix?” Dimitri’s soft voice startles him. 

“What,” he replies.

Dimitri tilts his head to look at him. The blue of his eye is so sharp it almost glows. “I...are you cold?” 

The question is so mundane, it renders him dumb momentarily. “What?”

“I said, are you cold?”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

As if to spite him, his body shivers again. 

Dimitri breathes out, slowly. “Of course. Well, I had meant to offer you my cloak if you would like an extra layer.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Felix says. “You’re injured, you need the warmth more than I do.”

“Yes, but I will not sleep regardless, and you will grow ill without rest.”

He rolls his eyes, not bothering to dignify that with a response. 

Dimitri sits up, and the snow crunches beneath him. “I could wrap it around us both.”

Felix frowns. “That’s no solution.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s the only solution.”

Felix scans Dimitri’s face, his shoulders, his hands, relieved that he no longer appears seconds from shattering. In fact, he merely looks curious, beneath the veil of exhaustion.

Somewhat stiffly, Dimitri struggles to his knees and tosses the cloak over himself where it had drooped off his shoulder.

Bewildered, Felix throws his hand up and sputters, “Wh—no, stop. Stay put!” 

Dimitri stops. And Felix crawls— _crawls,_ for fuck’s sake—over to him, and slumps against the tree on his non-injured side. Once seated, he allows himself to be nudged out of the way so that Dimitri can drape the cloak around them both. 

By necessity, this means Dimitri must sit absurdly close to him in order to fit the width of his shoulders underneath. Felix leans in, reaches for the end of the cloak around Dimitri’s arms, and wraps as much of himself in it as possible. 

Alright, he will admit that this is nicer than shivering in just his own coat. Even if Dimitri smells like singed fur and horse dung, and his extremely sharp elbow is digging into Felix’s side. 

“Will this suffice?” Dimitri asks softly from somewhere above him.

_Ask yourself_ , he thinks. “It’s fine.”

The ground is slanted in a way that shifts Felix’s weight to his side, and he finds his head resting on Dimitri’s shoulder without thinking. He lifts it, awkwardly, and stares at the two pairs of feet that stretch out in front of them. Dimitri’s pants are tucked into ruched leather boots with wide cuffs, worn from use. They cling to him nicely, Felix thinks, from his sleepy haze.

“Felix?”

Felix grunts in reply. When Dimitri doesn’t say anything for a few moments, he whispers, “What?”

In the dark, with their arms pressed together, Dimitri’s hand finds its way to Felix’s, brushing the back of his glove. Felix lets out a breath at the contact. But he opens his palm, lets his fingers curl over Dimitri’s. 

He waits, thinking Dimitri must have forgotten his response, or else he’s fallen asleep. He almost misses the words uttered in the stillness.

“Thank you.” 

~

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go! They should be up before year's end, but in the meantime I hope all you lovely readers that are celebrating holidays have a safe and relaxing few weeks. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Dimitri and Felix return, their friends aren't about to let them pull more stunts without help. Crowds begin to gather in Fhirdiad for the summit event. Dimitri works to convince Felix that he is not reverting to his past state of blind revenge.

They slip into the city just after dawn. No one seems too concerned at their quiet return, not even the stable master who had been so agitated the day before. Felix wonders how regular a sight it is for guards to see their king slinking home in a state of disarray.

Upon entering the castle, everyone they pass bows their heads in sleepy if curious greetings. They soon cross the threshold to the upper level. Ashe blocks their path, his relief palpable.

“Your Majesty. Felix.” He stops just short of them. “Thank the Goddess you’re back! Tell me what happened.”

“Not here,” says Dimitri. In the growing daylight, his eye is sunken and his mouth thin. 

They walk on until they reach the private hallways, and Dimitri nods and greets the patrol guard outside his quarters with awkward politeness. Felix and Ashe traipse in behind him.

Ashe starts up as soon as the door is shut: “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

“He needs proper healing,” Felix says. 

Dimitri shakes his head. He sinks into an armchair in the front salon. “No, I don’t want to alert the staff.”

Felix glares at him from near the fireplace. “You can’t expect to be fully present today in your current state. Summon a healer.”

“Uh, you won’t need to alert anyone, Your Majesty,” Ashe chimes in. “The staff are busy preparing for the arrival of all the guests in the afternoon, not to mention the banquet this evening. But Mercedes is here—I can fetch her!”

Dimitri sighs. “Very well. Please do.”

“Of course,” Ashe says, nodding. 

He exits. Felix lets the silence permeate the room until it curdles bitterly in his stomach.

“If you’re going to pretend, you can at least be more convincing,” he says. “I won’t be able to take a full day of your false cheer.” 

Dimitri looks up. There is a streak of dirt on his forehead, along the band of his eyepatch. “I’ve told you, I am not hiding anything. I am only ever myself.”

The pack on Felix’s back slides sideways. He tugs it further up his shoulder, hearing the glass clink of Hubert’s potion inside. 

“Who are you doing all this for, then? The living or the dead?”

“All this?”

Eyeing the door, Felix drops to a whisper. “Exposing the Count, putting the castle and the people at risk on the strength of questionable intelligence.”

“This is not about revenge, I swear it,” Dimitri says. That gaze, how deeply he can look into Felix with just one eye, draws out a painful longing—for what, Felix isn’t sure. 

Dimitri’s voice grows quieter. “I will not add to the dead today, not if I can help it. Nor will I be alone. Felix, I—”

The door opens before he can finish, Ashe and Mercedes stepping quickly through. She greets them warmly, pushes Felix’s hair out of his face to look him over before moving to fuss at Dimitri’s side instead. 

Unwilling to be under scrutiny from both Mercedes and Ashe, Felix uses the commotion to slip quietly away. 

~

Sylvain is waiting for Felix in his rooms. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Sylvain demands. His clothes are rumpled, and judging by the state of his hair, he probably slept as little as Felix had. “Ingrid’s just about had a conniption.” 

“We’re fine. She shouldn’t get so worked up over it.”

Felix decidedly does not mention the current whereabouts of Ingrid’s mare. With any luck, the village stablehand will have recognized the Fhirdiad insignia on the saddle and sent her off, and Carrot will have already found her way back to the city.

He lets his pack fall onto the floor and starts unhooking his weapons from his belt. Sylvain grabs them from his hands to set them neatly aside; Felix is too tired to protest. 

“Felix, you and Dimitri disappeared, without warning. You made _Ashe_ lie for you!”

“Ashe is not as innocent as you think,” Felix replies.

Sylvain’s eyes widen and he shakes his head in disbelief. “At least ask _me_ next time you try something this insane!”

Felix had only asked Ashe because he’d caught Felix on his way out. Were it not for that, he wouldn’t have thought to tell any of them. He winces internally.

“Fine.” He sighs. “Sylvain, I need your help.”

“Yeah, you do. You look like shit.” 

Sylvain turns away, takes tired steps toward the inner chambers. Felix stalks after him.

“That’s not what I mean.”

Sylvain waves a hand. “I’ll talk to you after you clean up. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

To punctuate this, he sits with a bounce on Felix’s bed, smiles with teeth and a pointed gesture to the bath on the other side of the wall. 

Felix admits to himself, once he’s submerged the warm water, that it is a good idea. His impatience gives way to exhaustion as he scrubs yesterday’s filth off himself and dabs gingerly at the few scratches and burns he acquired. 

Afterward, he finds Sylvain has laid a set of day clothes for Felix to slip into, and Felix fills him in on the past twenty-four hours’ worth of events.

“The Marquis Vestra, huh?” Sylvain lets out a low whistle. “Never thought I’d hear from that bastard again. You’re certain he’s not out for Dimitri somehow?”

“No, not in the slightest,” Felix says, annoyed. He forgot that Hubert is technically titled as well, after the untimely death of his own father.

Sylvain drums his fingers on his thigh while he considers. “The fact that he’s conspiring with Lorenz is really what gets me. Lorenz isn’t the type to oust his own father for more power, evil or not, nor would he have anything directly to gain from Dimitri’s death.”

“And? What if von Vestra convinced him?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Lorenz can be naïve, but he isn’t stupid. Did you get a look at Count Gloucester at all?”

“No,” Felix admits, frowning. “We fled before I could see his face.”

There’s a soft knock at the door, followed by a polite inquiry of, “Lord Fraldarius? Lord Gautier?”

Felix looks at him, confused, but Sylvain stands and smiles in expectation. “Just a moment!” he calls back. 

Sylvain ushers in a portly man with a leather carrying case and a well-groomed mustache. Felix nods politely at him and makes to leave—he’s starving, after all—but Sylvain grabs his arm. “Hold on there, _Your Grace,_ he’s here for you.”

Felix shakes him off. “What are you talking about?”

“I am here to cut your hair, Your Grace,” says the man, apparently a barber. 

Felix raises an eyebrow at Sylvain, then addresses the stranger. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, come on, Felix, I’ve had this scheduled for ages,” Sylvain says with a slight whine. He grins at Felix for the first time all morning. “This is the biggest event Fhirdiad has hosted since the war, not to mention _His Majesty’s birthday_.”

He claps his hands on Felix’s shoulders from behind and gently guides him toward a chair near the fire, where the barber has begun setting up his tools. 

“I have no need to impress anyone, much less Dimitri,” Felix grits out so the other man won’t hear.

“You don’t have to do anything major, just a quick clean up,” says Sylvain. “But if you don’t think he’ll like it, that’s another story.”

“Shut up,” Felix says, but he sits in the chair anyway. 

He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to return to Dimitri and ensure he doesn’t do anything else stupid today. From how Sylvain examines him, trapped under scissors and razor in this stuffy armchair, Felix thinks this must really be another way for Sylvain to keep an eye on _him._

“Don’t just stand there uselessly,” Felix admonishes. “Go bring me something to eat.”

Sylvain laughs but thankfully does so. A tray with warm food returns in his place a few minutes later.

When the barber is done, Felix thanks him and tips him more generously than usual to send him off faster. He’s grateful Sylvain isn’t there to see him dress in the day’s outfit he’d chosen, look himself over in the glass, and adjust his coat five times before considering himself presentable.

~

The rest of the castle continues preparations for the summit festival in earnest. In fact, Felix doesn’t get the chance to speak to Dimitri for hours more—they are both pulled left and right by various staffers and friends and knights needing final approval on this thing or that. Dimitri is so busy that people start coming to _Felix_ for his say on things. He eventually flees outside to avoid having to give opinions to anyone.

The marketplace in the castle’s front courtyard transforms into quite the lively atmosphere before noon has even passed: people crowding the square in their layers and furs, children playing between the stalls. Some of the erected stands feature Duscur goods and delicacies, some Srengi, and some western and southern Imperial (former Imperial, rather). In a prominent place stands a whole row of famed Alliance exports: beers made from the finest barley, floral perfumes, breads and spice cakes and fruity jams.

In the late morning, there is fanfare at the arrival of Almyran ships in the harbor, and the disembarking of elaborately dressed merchants with their wares. They are welcomed by Captain Derrick and other knights and instructed where to set up.

Felix finds himself wandering the square with the excuse that he wants to sample the foods, but really to get the lay of the land and see if Hubert’s intelligence about the Almyran merchants is true. Ingrid accompanies him—any chance for good food draws her like a horse to fresh hay.

She’s not pleased with him still. Luckily, it’s difficult to stay mad when Felix leads her to four different meat stands from differing regions _and_ pays for her food.

They pass the newly-disembarked merchants, and Felix scans their number. Some of them act more as guards, armed with small throwing axes or swords tucked into their robes, but most are not obvious. Assassins rarely make their weapons easy to spot. 

One of the merchants is still speaking with the captain when Felix walks by, no doubt quibbling over why a party of merchants would necessitate armed bodyguards. The merchant slips Captain Derrick a scroll of some kind, which seems to satisfy him. Felix questions how much Dimitri might have told him, remembers how Derrick passed the letters through without question. He’s this close to striding over to ask, but Ingrid drags him to yet another food stand, this one with spicy pickled seafood from Sreng.

Soon enough the hour arrives for the guests of honor to appear. In a stroke of convenience, both the Gloucester contingent and the Archbishop’s party from Garreg Mach reach the city at the same time, to be greeted formally by the King and his court. 

Felix makes his way to Dimitri’s side on the castle steps, above the row of knights holding the banners aloft. He peers sideways at Dimitri as thoroughly as he can without turning his head.

Dimitri looks...better. He’s clearly bathed and wears the ornate blue and gold and silver outfit with the Blaiddyd cape that he wore for his coronation. His crown is pinned between locks of golden hair, which also hide the strap of his embroidered eyepatch. He does not smile, but nor does he look as ill or tormented as he had the night before. Felix is almost convinced that Dimitri had a refreshing night’s rest instead. He wonders what kind of healing magic Mercedes employed to pull it off.

Dimitri notices him then. Unlike Felix, he turns properly to look at him, a quick overall glance before meeting his eyes. His face softens. 

And Felix can’t look away. So he does the next best (worst) thing, which is to brush an imaginary strand of hair from Dimitri’s forehead. 

“Are you feeling any more rested?” he asks, facing forward again. Truly, he is pathetic.

“I should be asking you this,” says Dimitri. The noise of the gathering crowd muffles their words from those around them. “After all, you are the one who traveled day and night to return me here safely.”

Felix tries not to scowl, or worse, blush. “That doesn’t answer my question.” 

Dimitri sighs softly. “I have been hounded by friends and advisors since stepping foot in the castle this morning. A king has no time for rest.”

“A king can do what he wishes,” says Felix.

“If that is true, then you and I have very different ideas of kingship.”

Felix purses his lips. He spies Captain Derrick on the steps below them, at the head of the king’s guard. 

“What does the captain know?” Felix asks. “About today, I mean.”

Dimitri glances at him. “Only that we may have trouble from an unexpected quarter. Less than you, at any rate.”

He turns forward, a ghost of a smirk hovering at his mouth. Felix has no chance to reply because the horns begin blowing for Count Gloucester’s arrival. 

He watches the assemblage come down the thoroughfare through the marketplace. Gloucester rides at the front behind his own banners, a man of average build with graying purple hair and a pointed chin that projects vanity over intimidation. His wife follows a few paces behind.

Beyond them are the knights and team of advisors of House Gloucester and their territory, some with their families. They ride proudly, with mingled dignity and excitement on the younger faces. Several sport minor injuries, but nothing that might belie the accidents of last night. Felix counts two fewer carts than he’d seen at the camp. Guilt twists in his stomach. 

Notably absent is the Count’s son and heir Lorenz. Felix knows he hadn’t been at the camp with the rest, but he still finds it odd and not at all reassuring. He does spot Ignatz Victor among the throng, unscathed. 

Dimitri greets the party with all the formality and noble bearing that befits proper etiquette on both sides, but Felix isn’t fooled. To him, the words are stiff, Dimitri’s bearing unsmiling and hiding his actual feelings, only present in the reflexive stretch of his hand at his side, unseen by the crowd.

The only time he sees Dimitri break this demeanor is at the arrival of Archbishop Byleth, flanked by Dedue. The king welcomes their smaller party with visible, if restrained, enthusiasm.

Felix is comforted more than he expects at the sight of both of them, two people who can see through Dimitri’s moods almost as well as Felix can. Dedue immediately takes in Dimitri’s visage and manner, and with nothing more than a subtle twist of his mouth conveys his awareness that all is not as he left it. Felix supposes Dedue will ask him about the intervening days of his absence, will not allow Felix to sweep them under a rug with a “none of your business” as others might. 

They stand on ceremony for what feels like another hour as parties from other Alliance families trickle in: Goneril, Edmund, Ordelia, Daphnel. The court apparently has nothing better to do today until the banquet in the evening, which will officially kick off the festival. 

Felix cannot even pay attention to the lines of people processing toward them. He’s too preoccupied with the gradual slouch of Dimitri’s shoulders, the tension pulling at the side of his mouth. Flakes of snow fall from the sky to dust his cloak and crown, but Dimitri pays no mind. 

When they return inside, Dimitri is cornered by staff, but Sylvain smoothly swoops in to answer whatever petty concerns they choose to lay at the King’s feet. 

Felix hovers, having nowhere pressing to be, watching with pursed lips. Doubtful that Dimitri is truly composed. He sees Sylvain mutter something pointed to Dimitri before he leaves to pull the staff members away. Dimitri frowns at Sylvain’s retreating back. 

Dedue attempts to steer Dimitri toward his chambers for a private drink with himself and Byleth in the afternoon’s only moment of rest, but Dimitri shrugs him off. 

“No, I cannot. I have other business to attend to before tonight,” he says gruffly. 

“Your Majesty…” Dedue’s low voice is a warning that Dimitri ignores.

Dimitri rebuffs them, striding instead toward Felix. “Felix, a word.”

He drags Felix aside in the large foyer, out of direct earshot of their friends. Felix relives the odd sensation he hasn’t felt since the war of having Byleth’s fathomless eyes on him.

“What is it,” says Felix, crossing his arms and trying to sound collected and not at all perturbed. Dimitri’s unflinching stare does not make this any easier. 

“You told Sylvain of the danger?” Dimitri asks.

“He ambushed me in my rooms this morning. Of course I told him.”

“Good.” He nods as if this were to be expected. “You may inform the others as well.”

Felix looks up in confusion. He is far too close all of a sudden. “Others?”

“Of your choosing. I trust you to handle this.”

His jaw drops slightly. “...What.”

He doesn’t understand. Trusts him to handle this? This being what, exactly? What has changed since this morning that Felix is unaware of?

“I will see you soon for the feast,” Dimitri says, clapping Felix on the shoulder.

Felix steps forward on instinct to halt him. “Dimitri, we have no plan.” 

“I do.”

“What is it, then?”

Dimitri looks away. “I am going to the vault to retrieve Areadbhar.”

Felix stiffens. “Your relic is not a plan. And I thought you said we would avoid a fight.”

“I am simply preparing for all possibilities.” 

Dimitri still hasn’t removed his hand. Felix feels heat seep into his shoulder where snow had dusted it earlier.

The others have made their way over to them, now that the bulk of the visitors have filed past toward their respective quarters. With a quick touch on Felix’s arm, Dimitri turns and heads for the exit at the opposite corner of the room. He’d been standing so close that his cape brushes Felix’s boots as he leaves.

Felix stares after him, somehow warmer than before. It’s as if Dimitri, through enforced proximity, is going above and beyond to convince Felix that he is not distancing himself from him as he had the last time he embarked on ill-advised revenge. 

Or else that night in the snowy forest sparked a new and unsettling habit of disregarding personal boundaries.

A slight cough interrupts his thoughts; Felix turns to see Dedue now at his side looking where Dimitri left. There’s another brush of fabric as Byleth walks past to follow after him, her long Archbishop’s robes doing nothing to hinder her long stride. 

Felix is suddenly and irrationally embarrassed that he didn’t do the same.

“Has something happened with His Majesty?” Dedue asks calmly. 

Felix opens his mouth, but Sylvain cuts in. “Why don’t you ask him where these two spent the past day?”

He glares at Felix, for once without a trace of any levity or his usual overly-relaxed posture. To make things worse, both Ingrid and Ashe have peeled off the stream of knights still coming through the castle doors and wound their way toward him. 

“Yes, I would like to hear this, too,” says Ingrid, frowning.

Their group is beginning to draw curious glances from those still milling in the entryway. Felix clenches his jaw. “Fine. Follow me.”

Ten minutes later, they are gathered in a small sitting room with the door barred. Dedue, Ingrid, Ashe, and Sylvain sit stiffly on the scattered chairs and couches, while Felix paces in front of the fireplace and very reluctantly briefs them on the coded messages, Dimitri’s disappearance and Felix’s chase, and the events that followed. 

Or, rather, most of the events. He omits the parts about how he attacked Dimitri unprovoked, or how they woke up the next morning tangled in Dimitri’s cloak together. Hardly pertinent to their current business.

“So what’s the plan?” Sylvain asks. He’s run his hands through his hair repeatedly while Felix talked, completely ruining whatever meticulous hair routine he would have undergone that morning. 

Felix scans their faces. Each of them has seen death, has talked through contingencies and allocated scarce resources to make it through one day at a time. It feels like war council again, except they are all staring at him for answers.

He feels ridiculous. “I don’t know,” he says gruffly. “We should find Dimitri, make sure the boar hasn’t run off into danger again.”

“Felix,” Ingrid warns. “I know you’re scared, but let’s stop and think for a moment.”

“I’m not scared—” 

“Wait, I have an idea,” Ashe says. “There are more of us than there were of you last night. We know this castle better than any Gloucester, real or no. We can use that to our advantage.”

“We don’t even know whether the threat is _real._ ”

“Felix, you can stop saying that,” says Sylvain, rolling his eyes. “We know there’s a threat, no matter who provokes it in the end. If Hubert shows up and tries to start something, you don’t need anyone’s permission to stab him.”

Felix crosses his arms. “Fine.” To Ashe: “What’s your idea?”

They spend the next half hour hashing out a plan. It’s rather half-baked, in Felix’s opinion, considering they know nothing of what could await them, but just having them involved raises his confidence. He hasn’t forgotten how those dark mages nearly killed them. Dimitri’s injury has not fully healed, but Felix knows that nothing will slow Dimitri down when he does not want it to. 

Before long they must disperse to prepare for the festival’s opening banquet. Sylvain’s cheer has returned, buoyed by the impending action. He tries to coerce Felix into scoping out the beautifully dressed guests loitering in the great hall with him; Felix all but shoves him from the room. 

Dedue lingers after the others leave. Felix holds the door open, expecting him to walk through, but he speaks instead: “You are worried about him.”

Felix averts his eyes. Of course he’s worried about Dimitri. He waits for Dedue to say more—a reproach, an admission of knowledge, a return to last week’s conversation about the letters—but nothing comes. 

“He’s prone to recklessness when he thinks…when he lets the end obscure the means,” Felix says. “It’s a thoughtless habit.”

Dedue regards him. “He is more careful than you think. Regardless, I will not let him out of my sight.”

Felix lets out a breath and nods, hoping Dedue understands his gratitude. 

They will have a lot to get through together in the next few days.

~

A clock chimes the hour: half past five in the evening. 

Felix cannot stay put in his room for another moment. 

He’s redone his hair (now in a braid down the center of his head) three times, just for something to do with his hands. His weapons are already cleaned and sharpened. His shirt is pressed, his overcoat dusted, his boots polished. 

All of it will be for naught, he thinks, if it comes to fighting. He considers, yet again, slipping some leather armor under the coat, or over it for that matter, but it will look suspicious for a duke to be wearing unnecessary armor at a formal banquet.

Felix scowls. At least he will have his swords.

With a sigh, he leaves his quarters before the temptation to mess with his clothes rises yet again. 

Dedue will have told Dimitri and Byleth of the discussion earlier, so there is no reason for Felix to make his way toward Dimitri’s study. But, well—it’s the path most worn under his steps whenever he stays at the castle, and there’s no one else who needs him besides.

He’s rounding the corner beyond the central stairs when Dimitri comes barreling down the hallway from the other direction. Palpable relief floods his face upon noticing Felix. 

“Felix! Thank the saints it’s you,” Dimitri whispers, grasping Felix’s shoulders in his hands. He glances over his shoulder before yanking Felix aside into an alcove behind a hanging tapestry.

“What,” Felix starts.

“Shhh!” Dimitri holds a finger to his mouth, shaking his head. 

Felix stares at Dimitri and tries again, softer: “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Dimitri’s arms are still latched to Felix’s shoulders. He’s breathing maybe a bit faster than normal, but there’s no agitation in his face, no hardened determination or outrage. 

_No fighting yet,_ Felix rules out. 

“Sorry, I just,” Dimitri finally drops his arms, “...need to be rid of my staff for one moment. Help me, will you?”

This is accompanied by another hurried look over his shoulder, as if passersby could see them beyond the fringes of the decades-old tapestry. The cloth drapes fully to the ground, and behind them a narrow, curved window provides a secluded view of the castle’s inner courtyard, in which Felix can see some guards tromping through the inch of snow on their patrol. 

“You don’t want to find somewhere more comfortable?” Felix asks wryly. 

“This will do.” 

He looks at Felix then, now that they’re hidden; Felix almost feels the path of Dimitri’s eye over his boots, his waist-length coat, his exposed shirt collar, the tail end of his braid. He looks away as Dimitri meets his eyes. 

Footsteps pass, as well as the noise of lively and exasperated conversation on the other side. It can’t be as loud as Felix’s stupid, pounding heart. 

He frowns. “Do I pass inspection, then?” he bites out.

“Oh.” Dimitri clears his throat. “I mean, that is....of course. You look quite handsome today.”

The question was already a mistake, and looking at Dimitri is an even more colossal one. There is pink dusting his cheekbones under the gold embroidery of his eyepatch.

Felix wishes they were outside again, where the cold is ever a convenient excuse. “Is that all you dragged me here to say?”

Dimitri shakes his head again. “No, no. It is only...I wanted to thank you.”

A soft exhale. This is a topic Felix can manage. 

“You have already,” he says, dismissive.

He crosses his arms and brushes Dimitri’s chest in the process. The nook is far too small for conversation, meant for solitary occupants and extra eyes. In fact, there is probably a guard on their way to take up the post right now. 

“How are you feeling?” he continues. It’s stilted, but the silence unnerves him. 

“Better,” Dimitri murmurs with a slight smile. “My shoulder is as good as new.”

Felix highly doubts this. 

“Right.”

He stares at the clasp holding Dimitri’s cape in place, subtle and refined, a small Blaiddyd crest depressed into the silver link. It barely covers the dip of Dimitri’s throat. 

He grinds his teeth, shifts his weight, looks out the window. If Dimitri doesn’t have anything more to say, Felix may do something he regrets. Like _touch_ him.

It doesn’t matter in the end because Dimitri touches him first.

“The banquet is imminent. Are you prepared?” Felix asks, as Dimitri’s _hand is cupping his elbow_. 

Dimitri replies as if he isn’t invading Felix’s space for no reason. “As I will ever be. You must pardon me, but I don’t feel much like celebrating.”

Felix doesn’t blame him for this but finds it difficult to sympathize at the moment. Dimitri is wearing slim leather gloves with fur lining and trim, and Felix can feel the fur brush along his sleeve. 

With immense effort, he curls his own hand atop Dimitri’s. It’s hard to see past Dimitri’s bulk, but Felix focuses on a crack in the mortar behind him. 

“Dimitri...for what it’s worth, I am grateful that you’re here. That you’re...alive.”

Because he is, despite everything. Dimitri is alive. Not dead in Duscur, or dead in his own castle dungeon, or atop a pile of Imperial soldiers, or in the flames of Gronder Field, or…

He swallows and risks looking at Dimitri’s face. “It would be best if you stay that way. For the kingdom.”

Felix hears Dimitri let out a breath, watches him blink and focus back and forth on Felix’s two eyes. “I…”

He looks intently at Felix for a long moment, and then slowly ducks his head, brushing his lips over Felix’s. 

It’s fleeting, hesitant. Dry. 

When he moves away, Felix lifts his chin to follow. 

“For the Kingdom,” Dimitri repeats, reverently. His eye never leaves Felix’s.

The words make Felix blink and flush further. 

“Wipe that pathetic look off your face,” he whispers.

Someone might catch them at any moment. He relaxes his hand, which had tightened over Dimitri’s unconsciously. 

Dimitri only smiles broader. His other hand comes up to touch Felix’s cheek, and somehow their other fingers are now intertwined over Felix’s forearm. 

A loud crash down the hall startles the both of them, followed by cries of despair and irritated chatter.

Dimitri sighs softly. “I’d better go.” 

He ducks out of the alcove with one last squeeze of Felix’s hand.

~

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summit officially begins with an elaborate birthday banquet. What will happen with the one masquerading as Count Gloucester? ("Apex of the World" starts playing in the background)  
> And more importantly, will Felix be able to respond properly to that brief kiss???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: there is a fight scene here, so there's violence but nothing outrageously graphic. A few mentions of minor character death result. 
> 
> Well, this is it! The final chapter of this saga that took me many months to write and even more to edit. xD  
> Happy 2021 everybody! Thanks so much for sticking through to the end!  
> Please read if only to see the other piece of Ama's artwork in the final scene, which is utterly delightful. Also definitely check out [the rest of their art on twitter](https://twitter.com/fenneccake) if you don't already follow them!

The banquet—and the summit festival as a whole—is primarily meant as a show of good faith between the monarchy and the former Alliance territories. It was scheduled to align with Dimitri’s twenty-fifth birthday to heighten the celebrations, much to Dimitri’s chagrin.

Tonight’s feast opens the festival with food, drink, gifts for His Majesty, and dancing. Tomorrow they will begin the long sessions to discuss proposals over changing structures within the Alliance and the necessary trade and industry agreements that must follow. Alongside the multicultural market to entertain visitors, a jousting tournament commences on the following day of the summit, lasting three days (or as long as the competition holds out). 

Felix nurses a goblet of red wine as he surveys the room from the high table. He recognizes the taste vaguely as one that Sylvain had him try days earlier. 

All he can think of is Dimitri’s lips on his, his gloves on Felix’s face, the warmth of his touch, the way he _looked_ at Felix earlier. 

If his plan had been to distract Felix from one source of stress with another, Dimitri was unfortunately successful. 

The tables are already laden with food, more than Felix believed they could drum up for only their second winter post-war. However, they’d also imported a great deal from territories near and far for the occasion. He can see Ingrid trying not to salivate as they wait for the feast to properly begin.

Felix drags his gaze on another round about the hall. No seats were assigned, though most groups have gathered around their own House companions, with a few more daring guests seated near those they want favor from, or whom they are trying to impress.

Count Gloucester and his wife remain strictly with their party, offering polite conversation but no overtures of friendliness from what Felix can see. 

No sign of uninvited guests sneaking in yet. Ignatz in the marketplace and Ashe on the ramparts will see to it that none do. Not to mention the merchant-assassins.

Speaking of the Almyrans, two of them enter the hall then, one carrying an elaborately decorated parcel. As everyone else has taken their seats, their arrival is noticeable. A knight on duty at the door looks to Captain Derrick for approval to let them pass, and the captain nods his head.

“Your Majesty,” calls one of the merchants. “If it pleases you on this feast of your birth, we come bearing a gift from His Royal Eminence, Khalid von Riegan.” 

Murmurs ripple through the crowd: a gift from a royal prince is gossip indeed. 

Felix snorts. It is so like Claude to make a scene even when he’s not present.

“Oh,” Dimitri says, startled. “Yes, well. Please proceed.”

The merchant who hasn’t spoken lifts the lid of the package to reveal an ornate dagger in the Almyran style of intertwining metals, carved with a lion’s head in the hilt. The merchant then draws out the dagger, displays it with bare hands along the blade. Unless she is immune to poison through skin contact, the gift is free of harm.

Felix’s eyes widen, enamored despite himself. Sylvain leans over, stretching his arms behind his head. 

“Looks like someone got wind of His Majesty’s affinity for daggers as gifts,” he whispers.

“What are you talking about,” says Felix. “It’s a symbolic gesture, nothing more.”

While Dimitri certainly looks pleased, it’s nothing above what is appropriate at such a gift.

“Right, right.” Sylvain smirks. “So what did you get dear Dimitri, anyway? A bigger sword?”

Felix scowls but doesn’t reply. He paid a high price for his commissioned gifts—a new set of dueling swords—and they are late.

Dimitri thanks the merchants graciously, asks them to carry a letter of gratitude back to the prince on their journey home. They bow and take their leave. 

Nothing but a few speeches remain between them and their supper. Felix doesn’t pay attention when Sir Gustave rises to toast Dimitri’s health and reign. Out of curiosity he looks for Annette—he hasn’t spoken to her yet tonight, wonders how she is doing—but she is whispering urgently to Mercedes.

As they all raise their drinks to cheer, Felix watches the Count sip from the corner of his eye. There is no immediate reaction; instead he sets the goblet down calmly, unconcerned.

Felix tries not to show his worry. He knows Sylvain did as he promised, sneaking into the kitchen to coat the inside of a goblet with the colorless potion. Paying a servant to ensure the goblet was served to the correct person. 

It should have dissolved into the drink by now.

At his second glance in Sylvain’s direction, Sylvain seems to read his mind. “Annette thinks it might be slow-acting, to give a false sense of security. It shouldn’t take too long,” he says quietly.

Felix nods, biting his lip. Not for the first time, he wonders what Hubert actually gave them. 

The noises of cheer die down as Sir Gustave’s speech ends. Hopeful eyes gaze longingly over the plates of food before them. Felix, uncaring, sneaks a bite of meat when no one’s looking. 

The Count stands then. “Your Majesty,” speaks a slippery voice. It sets Felix immediately on edge. Sylvain tenses beside him.

Gloucester bows low with a flourish. “I pray the Goddess grants her many blessings to you on this day and thank you most profusely for your royal hospitality. Would that such hospitality extended to the outermost roads into Faerghus.” 

Felix resists the urge to look at Dimitri on his left. 

“I apologize, I do not know what you mean,” Dimitri says with perfect calmness.

The Count makes a show of dismay. “It is only that our camp was attacked in the night, on the road but a day’s ride south of here. How unfortunate to find unrest so close to home.”

Before Dimitri can respond, Sylvain cuts in. “You may be right, my lord. There are rumors of a growing prevalence of bandits that have become desperate in the winter season. Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” Dimitri agrees, coolly. “We are very sorry to hear of your misfortune. How lucky it was that the Archbishop’s party came upon you in the morning and helped to heal the injured.”

Felix doesn’t like where this is going. _Why isn’t the damn potion working?_ He keeps his eyes on the Count, whose lips curl. 

“As a show of thanks for your struggles, we humbly offer to provide extra guard support for the Gloucester party,” _the party_ , Felix notes, and not _Your Lordship_ , “on your return journey.”

He is remarkably collected on the surface. But Felix sees him play with something under the table, knows Areadbhar is fastened there out of sight.

“You are too kind as ever, Your Majesty,” the Count replies. “However, I regret to admit a slight lack of trust in the kingdom soldiers. Look at what was found outside my own tent.”

One of his knights holds up Dimitri’s discarded shortsword, which bears no distinguishing markings but that of the kingdom soldiers’ standard weapon maker.

Felix’s chest seizes for a moment. It proves nothing, he knows. As long as Dimitri plays along. 

“Even my own troops occasionally fall victim to bandit looting. If you are here to accuse my soldiers of foul play, then come out with it. I will disprove every account you dredge up against them.”

The Count takes a long sip of wine. “You would _personally_ disprove, would you?”

“Yes, I would,” Dimitri says, firm but sincere. “And I maintain my offer of support. We have no wish to suffer any bandit activity against our invited guests.” 

Gloucester opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Instead, his hands fly to his throat, goblet discarded, and he begins to choke. 

The crowd collectively holds a breath, but when the choking does not subside, Dimitri shouts for assistance. As planned, Mercedes and Annette and a few other mages rush to provide aid, but the Count holds up a hand. Gloucester soldiers move between them. 

Felix stays where he is, transfixed. As the Count shudders with each aborted breath, his whole body undulates in a sickening way. 

One of the other Gloucester men stares at Dimitri and yells, “What have you done?”

Everyone else looks on in terror and shock as the man previously known as Count Berthold Gloucester drastically changes appearance. His face stretches, darkens, and bulges with veins. His shoulders widen, and his hair lightens to dirty gray with streaks of brown.

The Countess shrieks and tumbles out of her seat, her plate clattering to the ground.

“Do not fear, Eloise, I will not harm you,” rasps the Agarthan. 

Felix tastes bile in his throat. He can’t believe Hubert is right after all. 

The Lady Gloucester—Eloise—shakes her head frantically. “Who are you? What have you done with Berthold?”

The smile he gives her is chilling. “I’m afraid your poor husband is no longer of this world.”

She cries out in despair. Some braver guests—soldiers, mostly—clamber to their feet and brandish their weapons. 

The Gloucester knights press in closer to guard the Agarthan, though some of the Count’s staff edge away in fear. And then, to make things worse, dark-robed mages peek in through the side doors. The castle guards on duty draw their weapons but do not yet attack.

Felix clenches his jaw and lays a hand on his sword. 

Dimitri stands and asks, “Who are you? Why have you come?” His words echo over the hall and quiet the crowd.

“Why, I am here to foster peace, as planned,” says the Agarthan.

“Peace.” A significant pause. “If I understand correctly, you murdered the true Count and usurped his place. I do not call that peace; I call that subterfuge. Nor is it the first disgrace you and your...companions have enacted against my people.

“However, I have no wish to take life senselessly, as once I might. Leave now, and I will spare your life.”

The false Count makes a sound that Felix can only charitably call laughter. “How magnanimous. Is this how you treat all your guests of honor?”

“You are no guest here. Nor have you answered my questions. Who are you?” Dimitri demands again.

“I think the more important question is who are _you,_ my young sire? A treasonous, raving madman who killed his own stepsister in the pursuit of revenge. Leader of a kingdom that venerates genocide. Do your _people,_ ” he spits, “know all that has transpired on your path to the throne?”

Felix can’t take this anymore. He jumps to his feet. “We know what he’s done,” he nearly shouts. 

_It’s you, scum, whose deeds are still in the dark._

“Felix, leave it.” Dimitri extends a hand to block him.

“Ah yes, the king’s right hand, or perhaps his pet. Tales of your deeds in battle have reached the far corners of the continent, Felix Fraldarius.”

“Shut up,” Felix snaps.

“I couldn’t agree more,” says a new voice. Margrave Edmund has risen from his seat. “I’ve heard more than enough. Never liked the bastard Gloucester, but I like you even less. If I were you, I would heed the young king’s words and—”

His goblet falls with a clang as he coughs violently. More gasps of shock ring out.

Blood drains from Felix’s face. It can’t be—is there another impostor? Did they poison two chalices by mistake? He looks to Sylvain, who shakes his head and shrugs helplessly. 

Chairs scrape against the stone floor as several healers flock to the Margrave, his daughter Marianne among them.

“You see now?” the Agarthan says with raised voice to the crowd. “We are not safe here. He means to destroy you one by one!”

But no one rallies to his cry.

With a forceful tug, Dimitri pulls Areadbhar out from its hiding place. He climbs atop the table. “Your lies are pointless,” he growls. “Now get. Out!” 

Felix hears a wail of agony from somewhere near the Margrave, who is still writhing and gasping in pain despite the many hands of healing magic pressed to him. 

A soldier of house Edmund yells out in anger and charges for the Agarthan stranger. Before he can even reach the next table, a Gloucester mage strikes him down. The spell resonates with a thunderclap, followed by deafening silence. 

As if on cue, fighting erupts in the banquet hall. 

Edmund guards attempt to avenge their fallen soldier and perhaps dying lord, Goneril bannermen leap to defend their own house. Dark mages fan out and block the exits. Someone shoots down one of the hanging chandeliers, which lands on a table and causes fire and panic. 

“Stop!” shouts Dimitri. The sound is immediately absorbed in the chaos. “Leave before you are destroyed!” 

He leaps down from the table and runs toward the center of the room into the fray. Felix flies after him, sword already drawn. 

The rest of their small but informed group springs to action. 

A flood of dark purple robes and beaked masks fills the main entrance; two are pulling shut the heavy wooden doors. Felix hears a familiar shout as Sylvain blasts them open with _Ragnarok_.

Annette and Mercedes lead as many people out of the hall to safety as possible, flinging spells and blowing debris and flames to clear a path. Dedue and Byleth fight side by side against any oncomers, to give them room. 

At least, this is what Felix hopes is happening, based on their earlier plans. He is busy dodging mace swings and dark mire at Dimitri’s back. A foot soldier tries to strike at Dimitri’s leg, but Felix stabs him in the gap beneath his armor before the swing can land. 

Dimitri wields Areadbhar in a whirlwind flurry of attacks, keeping his strikes shy of any innocent soul that crosses his path toward the Agarthan. He lunges sideways to dodge lightning strikes; it appears the enemy himself has chosen to attack after all.

And Felix sticks to his never-changing mission: protecting Dimitri. He pours all energy into keeping as many people as possible away from Dimitri—Alliance soldiers in range of the relic’s strike zone, mages who venture too close, screaming dignitaries unprepared for a fight at a winter feast. He is relieved to see the Margrave carried out on a stretcher by two kingdom bishops.

After diving out of the way of yet another fireball, Felix notes something unusual. Many of the mages are not aiming for him, nor Dimitri. They are instead targeting the civilian diplomats and the other noble guests. 

He wipes blood from his mouth. They must be trying to provoke Dimitri, hoping to incite further violence and prove the Count’s words about him. 

More shrieks from behind. He whirls around—a mage has trapped three unarmed guests under a table. Fire licks down the edge of the tablecloth, and the wood begins to crack above them. Ingrid throws her lance from the table’s other side. It misses just barely. The clatter alerts Dimitri, brings the conflict into his line of sight... 

Felix runs to close the distance between them. He knows Dimitri can hold his own, won’t break down as long as Felix and the others are here to help. 

With each scream of pain reverberating in the hall, he sees the pain mirrored on Dimitri’s face, hardening into anger. Dimitri howls as he slashes the mage in question, hacking their hand clean off. As the mage flees, Dimitri hisses in pain, clutches his injured shoulder. 

“Focus!” Felix shouts. Dimitri rolls his shoulder and nods, turning back to their target once he sees Ingrid pulling the guests to safety.

The Agarthan has regrouped while Felix’s attention was elsewhere: a mage appears on Felix’s left and an axe warrior on his right. The axe comes at him in a hard swing from above, while the mage flings fire at his feet. Felix dives to one side, forgetting to tuck in his arm as he rolls—he drops his sword with a gasp and clutches his wrist. The impostor Count raises his hands in his direction, hands that spark with magic.

“Felix!” calls Dimitri, but he is too far. 

A flash of light fills his vision. Still on the ground, Felix braces for impact, but Byleth gets to him first, throws herself in front of the spell holding a familiar shield. Her sword surprises the nearby mage next. As he crumples, she turns to Felix.

“I believe this is yours,” she says. She pulls him up and hands a bewildered Felix his own relic. 

Dimitri rushes to him, his face a mask of concern. The Gloucester warrior swings again at Dimitri’s exposed back. Felix has hardly fit Aegis to his arm before he has to wield it to blunt the swing. The soldier stumbles as the weapon reverberates, giving Felix time to shove his sword into their throat. 

He screams over his shoulder at Dimitri. “Don’t worry about me, idiot! Get the Count!”

Bodies are strewn like pieces of broken furniture among the rubble of what once was the main banquet hall. The Agarthan tries to retreat through the remnants of the front doors, but Sylvain and Ingrid are there, engaged with a handful of mages and pushing them back. He turns back to see Dimitri in pursuit, casts a volley of lightning down the steps in defense.

Dimitri dodges several spells, leaping with long legs over a broken pillar. Then one of the bolts lands squarely in his stomach. He doubles over but does not fall, using Areadbhar for support.

A soldier at the base of the steps aims a lance at Dimitri’s back. Felix cuts them down, gasping for breath through smoke and dust. He can’t tell how many enemies—or allies—are left standing. Still more people flood into the hall even as others escape. Perhaps it’s Ashe and his battalion? 

Several things happen in quick succession then. With an agonized cry, Dimitri sprints up the stairs towards the Agarthan, who moves to strike once more. A third figure in a familiar-looking shabby cloak appears in the inner doorway off to one side, unnoticed by any save Felix. They shout something unintelligible, and Felix recognizes the voice with increasing anger: _Von Vestra._

Hubert’s spell does not collide with Dimitri, however. It hits the Agarthan in the chest, silencing whatever magic he’d been about to cast, just as Dimitri heaves Areadbhar through the air, pinning the Count by his robe to the floor beneath. 

Felix turns from them to Hubert, shouts at him to wait. But Hubert only nods his pinched face before teleporting away in a swirl of smoke. _Damn him to hell_ , thinks Felix, annoyed at his own wish for him to stay and help.

Dimitri’s chest is heaving as he closes the remaining distance. He yanks the lance up and holds the tip to the impostor’s throat.

“I ask you once again,” Dimitri says, livid. “Leave, or die.”

The Agarthan laughs, choking on blood and bile. While the rasping sound still echoes, Dimitri stabs him through the heart.

Someone calls for His Majesty then. Felix’s ears are ringing from the blasts of magic, but he hears the unmistakable neigh of a horse inside the hall. 

He pivots to see none other than Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, bedecked in full armor astride his horse, face pale as death, staring at the blood dripping from Dimitri’s lance over the body of his false father.

~

Two days later, after a period of recovery and mourning, they take tea with Lorenz in Dimitri’s chambers. From the window, Felix can see Leonie, who’d arrived with Lorenz, enjoying target practice with Ignatz and Ashe in the inner courtyard below. Felix would ordinarily prefer to be there, but he’s loath to leave Dimitri’s side.

Dimitri has been pacing the room for nearly ten minutes. It’s driving Felix mad. When he finally sits, he twitches his hand atop his knee. The motion is visible in Felix’s peripheral vision, like an irritating fly. 

“When did you know?” asks Dimitri. 

Lorenz thinks for a moment. “Not as soon as I ought to have, to my great regret. I was beleaguered with pointless busy work at home. Petty tasks for a mere prop of an heir. Meanwhile, he was able to amass far more troops than I expected without arousing roundtable suspicions.” 

In the end, they hadn’t been enough, Felix thinks. More forces tried to arrive through the front gate; another platoon of mages flanked by armed infantry. The Count clearly anticipated a fight among veteran war generals and fresh kingdom troops. 

Not Almyran assassins, though.

“Still,” Dimitri replies. “We owe you a great deal for your warnings, not to mention your aid at the last. Not many could outwit betrayal from within one’s household. I myself failed many times to see it.” 

Felix scowls. “Dimitri, you were too young then.”

“Nonsense. I shall accept nothing,” says Lorenz, gracefully ignoring Dimitri’s allusion. “I knew only that he would bring reinforcements, not how he planned to strike. His goal all along was to destabilize your reign, pin small acts of treachery on you until others could seize power.”

“And von Vestra?” Dimitri asks. 

“Ah yes,” says Lorenz, smiling ruefully. “I admit I did not trust him right away, but he has proved invaluable against their plot. It was his aid that brought me to you as early as I could manage, and of course he helped deliver the messages.” 

“That’s great. Could you not have used ordinary letters?” Felix grumbles.

Lorenz halts his motion, both eyebrow and teacup poised in midair. Then he frowns. “What was wrong with my method of correspondence? Besides, as I recall, you were not the intended recipient.”

“Your _letters_ caused undue commotion. Dimitri is burdened with enough secrets as is.” 

“Yes, I did keep them to myself while waiting for more definitive information,” admits Dimitri. A corner of his mouth turns up. “A mistake I will not make again, I assure you.”

Felix crosses his legs. “Good.” 

“It’s much riskier for me to keep you in the dark. You are far too ornery when you don’t get your way.”

Lorenz snorts into his tea.

~

Due to the subdued state of the castle and many of its current inhabitants, the advisory committee elects to cancel the jousting tournament, to the dismay of many attendees. 

Felix understands the decision. The banquet hall is in shambles, there is debris and burn marks littering the path to the main entrance, outside of which lies the remains of a thriving marketplace. Most vendors were able to escape further into town once fighting broke out. Inside, not everyone was so lucky.

Margrave Edmund is able to recover from whatever dose of poison he’d ingested, but several of his house’s soldiers were lost. Knights of the Alliance and the Kingdom fought valiantly (yet fruitlessly, Felix thinks with no small bitterness) and succumbed to dark magic. Goneril suffered a nasty wound in his leg. Count Ordelia did not make it at all. 

After tending the wounded and clearing what detritus they could manage, many of the dignitaries who traveled far insist they can still hold a summit, if limited in scope and festivities. Thus, a compromise is reached.

Captain Derrick makes the tournament announcement over dinner for those recovered enough to attend.

“Aw, man,” Leonie complains. “I was really looking forward to taking down the best that Faerghus has to offer.”

Sylvain leans back in his chair and folds his arms behind his head. “You can face me in the arena any time, Leonie.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes and lands a soft punch on his side. “Shut up.”

Leonie just grins. “You better come hungry, then, because you’ll be eating dirt when I’m done with you.”

Felix laughs along with them. He’s not entirely at ease, but the night cannot possibly harbor worse than they have already endured. The evening is casual, a light, early supper in which Dimitri does his best duty as both king and host to ensure his guests are as comfortable as possible given the circumstances.

Tonight, Felix spends less time watching Dimitri than he does scanning the doorways. But there is anticipation coiling his senses instead of caution. 

He chose this moment deliberately. Dimitri is occupied with inane conversation, boring enough to merit interruption but important enough to keep him distracted. 

Finally, after what seems an eternity, a servant taps the king on his shoulder and offers him a small folded parchment.

Felix sees Dimitri excuse himself to read through it with a calm expression, nod a dismissal to the messenger, and slip the paper into his pocket before reengaging his companions in whatever discussion they’d been having. 

He sips his drink, lost in thought. Dimitri’s face gave away frustratingly little. No smile, no quirk of the lips, no eye widening in surprise. 

“You appear unconcerned this time.” 

Felix turns. Dedue stands at his side, gazing impassively in Dimitri’s direction. 

“If it’s important, he’ll tell me,” Felix says. 

Dedue nods. “Of course.”

It is only when he walks away that Felix catches the glint of amusement in Dedue’s eyes. 

The meal is served soon after that. Felix is not seated near Dimitri and has no opportunity for conversation. Not that he expects Dimitri to mention the note in company.

As the sky begins to darken through the windows, Dimitri rises to excuse himself to the small crowd. “I thank you for your company once again, and beg leave to enjoy it tomorrow as well. For now, I must retire to rest.”

Felix focuses on his food while Dimitri speaks but lets his eyes follow Dimitri out the door. He doesn’t appear tired in the slightest, no more than the rest of them. 

He smiles to himself. Fifteen minutes should do it. 

The sounds of his friends chattering wash over him, blending with the warm ale and sinking into his tired limbs. As nice as it is, it can’t keep him occupied forever. 

Felix bids them farewell with a curt but content “good night.” Byleth smiles warmly at him, a sight almost as disarming as her hand resting on Dedue’s leg. Sylvain and Leonie try to cajole him into staying, but unfortunately for them, there is no taking him off course.

He hasn’t had a moment alone with Dimitri in days. Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

There is a garden, hidden in the shadow of the western tower, that affords some shelter from the winter elements. Dimitri’s grandmother had flowering vines planted at the base of the wall, tiny white blossoms like snowflakes on the damp stone. Ethereal blooms for Ethereal Moon. 

Thankfully, it remains untouched by the recent devastation.

Dimitri—or at least his shadow—is already there by the time Felix walks down the steps. He rounds the corner at the bottom and almost trips when he sees Dimitri’s full ensemble.

“Felix,” Dimitri says fondly. “You are prompt as usual.”

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for his words to sink in. The evening temperature must be close to freezing, and Felix can see Dimitri’s _bare chest_ through the untied laces of his shirt. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Dimitri looks confused. “Are you not here to meet with me?”

“I…” Felix stares at the cracked stone of the staircase to recover himself. “I merely followed you to see whether you were still prone to private assignations. Clearly the answer is yes.”

Snow squelches under Dimitri’s steps. “Felix, I recognized your handwriting.”

Of course he had. Felix is beginning to regret his desperation. It’s only that, even through the fight and the aftermath and then accounting for all of the damage, re-housing the guests away from the wreckage, postponing and reconvening diplomatic meetings—he hasn’t stopped thinking of that stupid kiss the other night. He never gave Dimitri a proper response, on his birthday no less. Not to mention that Felix’s actual gifts are still fucking late, even though he paid rush fees... 

“Why are you wearing that?” he asks. 

Dimitri glances down at his black travelling outfit from a few days ago (miraculously clean and mended, bless his staff): the same shirt with the billowy sleeves, a sash around his waist, black pants tucked into cuffed leather boots. 

“I did think it a rather unusual, if enlightening, request. Is this not what you wanted?”

Felix’s face is hot. He looks away before Dimitri can tease him further. 

“I didn’t think you would actually do it,” he muttered. 

Dimitri has always read him far too easily. In a sense, it makes things simpler. If Dimitri’s going to discover his thoughts anyway, Felix may as well throw caution in the fire.

He exhales, drops his shoulders and straightens his back. When he meets Dimitri’s eye, his face heats again, but he’s determined to do this. 

His left hand rests on his sword hilt to ground him. Slowly, he reaches his right hand up. His glove brushes the ends of Dimitri’s shirt laces and stops awkwardly at his collarbone.

“What are you doing?” Dimitri whispers. 

Felix glares up at him. “Are you dense? What does it look like I’m doing?”

Dimitri shrugs and gives him a look that says, _well, do it then._

The steam of their breaths collides between them. Felix’s hand moves to Dimitri’s chin. He tilts Dimitri down and leans up to meet him.

The kiss is deeper this time. Dimitri’s mouth parts, and Felix practically inhales his bottom lip at the invitation. His hand slides around, one thumb on Dimitri’s jaw and the rest curved behind his head. 

Dimitri uses this as permission to wrap an arm around Felix’s back and press into him, angling his head so they slot together more easily, laying kiss after kiss along the seam of his lips, from his nose to his chin. All while his hand is splayed low on Felix’s back, his leg jostling for leverage between Felix’s, the paleness of his exposed chest like a fucking beacon in the moonlight, soon covered by Felix.

Felix gasps at the contact; he expects the skin to feel like ice, but it’s warm, flush under him, even through Felix’s clothes. Without thinking, he runs his other hand over Dimitri’s neck and shoulders, slips his tongue into Dimitri’s mouth. 

The soft moan Dimitri makes shoots straight to his groin.

Ah, this is a little farther than he meant to take it right away, but Dimitri tastes like wine and won’t stop touching him, and he’s almost dizzy with the rush of blood downward.

Felix pulls away, looks at Dimitri and then at the ground. Waiting for his breathing to return to semi-normal. 

“Um. Happy birthday,” he says.

Dimitri laughs through his nose. “Indeed. Is this your gift to me?”

“Shut up. No.” Felix pushes hair out of his face. “Your real gift is coming, it should be ready within the week.”

“Mm. I like this one better.”

Dimitri’s lips are soft against the spot under his ear, warmer now than at the start. Felix tilts his head to one side automatically. 

He wants to surrender fully—Goddess, those hands on him could be considered lethal—but there are too many thoughts jumbled together in his mind. 

“Dimitri,” he says.

Dimitri hums into Felix’s jawline. 

“Did you mean what you said to Lorenz?” Felix asks. “That you won’t hide things from me anymore?”

The question draws Dimitri back. He stares into Felix's eyes. “I’ll show you as much as you’ll allow, Felix.”

“Tch,” Felix scoffs, though it comes out choking. How can he say such things, in open air, with his hands on Felix’s waist! “That wasn’t my question.”

A sigh. “Yes, I meant every word. I want to do better.” 

“Me, too,” Felix murmurs. “Do you think they’ll strike again?”

Dimitri doesn’t need to ask who he means. “It is likely, though I don’t know when. But we’ll be ready for them. We’ll regroup, seek more information ourselves.”

Somehow his hand slips into Felix’s, pressed between them. 

“Promise me you won’t run off again, no matter what the danger is,” Felix says. 

Dimitri leans his forehead into him. “I promise. And will you promise to speak to me of your troubles instead of taking them out on, say, the knights-in-training?”

 _Or our friends._

Felix swallows. “Hmph. Fine.” The upstart young soldiers always have it coming to them, but not anyone he cares about. Not Dimitri. “I’ll...share my complaints. Starting with this one: you talk too much.”

“I thought you wanted to know everything.”

Felix kisses him again softly, lets Dimitri’s breath warm his face. 

“I do.”

Still holding onto Dimitri’s hand, he pulls back and makes for the stairs, Dimitri falling quickly into step behind him.

~

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (fjsaldkfjlsdfj I just love that art piece so much, look at Felix's stupid blushy face!)


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